Apocalypse
by Tyranusfan
Summary: With Dean in Hell, a reeling Sam must hunt alone. A seemingly routine hunt in Tennessee may change his life forever. Posted fanzine story from Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers 2, printed May 2008. Rated T for some language and scary imagery. Post S3 AU.
1. Chapter 1

_This was my 2008 submission to Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers 2 fanzine, published last May. Of course, it was printed in one piece. I broke it into chapters here for ease of reading._

_Just a few notes: this was written a few weeks before the end of season 3, so there are some differences and obviously no relation to season 4 at all. Here, the boys got the Colt back from Bela, and while there was a battle with Lilith, it wasn't the night Dean went to Hell. Dean died at a crossroads._

_The story is set one year after Dean's death. _

_Special thanks to geminigrl11, K Hanna, and Jeanne for editing the various drafts of this story. They all worked very hard to perfect it. I own nothing. Reviews craved._

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**Apocalypse**

It's been a year already.

The realization dawned on him while he was cleaning the guns, waiting for Bobby to arrive at his motel room. It hit him so suddenly, he nearly dropped the bore brush.

One year.

One year since his brother died.

One year since Dean was dragged to Hell, closing the deal that had brought Sam back to life.

One year since Sam's failure.

It had been his chance, his one chance to show Dean what he could do. To show he was just as devoted a brother as Dean, could protect his older brother the way his older brother had always—_always_—protected him.

_You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this. Guess I gotta save your ass for a change._

The words, spoken with such conviction outside that Wyoming graveyard, taunted him, rolled over in his mind night after sleepless night.

Turned out there was one thing he couldn't do, after all.

One thought rose past all the rest. _Dean is dead because of me_.

It was too much. He hurled the gun he'd been cleaning—the .45 his dad had given him when he was nine—against the far wall, hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. He grabbed Dean's pearl-handled 9mm instead, cradling it against his chest while he tried to shut out the guilt.

He remembered what the Trickster had done, what it had shown him. When it made him live out his own future without Dean—months before Dean actually died—and showed him what he would become: an obsessed, revenge-driven shell. _Hell, I was ready to kill someone just for a chance to bring Dean back. I almost became a monster_.

Sam had kept that in mind when Dean actually died. He did his best to avoid becoming that person, to prove the Trickster wrong if nothing else.

No, that was a lie. He avoided it because being that cold-blooded, that inhuman, would dishonor Dean, and he still valued his brother's opinion of him. Even a year after his brother had gone to Hell. But damn if it didn't get harder every day.

Sam barely felt anything anymore. He'd eat food but not taste it. He'd come back from hunts covered in bruises he didn't remember getting. Sometimes, he'd look in the mirror and not recognize the lost, empty person staring back at him. Most days, he just went through the motions, at least pretending he was alive so Dean's sacrifice would still hold meaning.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the cool steel of the gun in his shaking hands. Dean's gun. He'd put it to his temple right now, if Dean would let him. Dean had been very clear on his last day, though.

_You live, Sammy. I bought you a second chance, so use it_.

He'd been too grief-stricken that night to do anything but nod, accepting the order and making Dean a silent promise. A week later, the unintended cruelty of the words sank in: Dean was denying him an escape from the torture of being left behind, of being alone. Rage had overcome him, and he'd trashed Bobby's guest room…and a bar down the street. A week after that, the anger had burned out and he'd accepted it as a rule to live by. He wasn't allowed to kill himself. Seemed simple enough. It'd be a hard order to follow, but he'd do it for Dean.

After that, he'd left Bobby's and hit the road again, unable to bear the familiar surroundings anymore, or the empathetic glances from their old friend. He'd moved from motel to motel, going a full month before he realized he was still paying for two beds. Didn't matter, not like either was ever slept in much. Most nights, when he wasn't on a hunt, he ended up curled around a bottle of Jack on the floor between the beds.

He kept on paying for the two queens. Probably always would. Dean had left him the ten thousand dollars Bela had paid them for saving her life, and the considerable winnings Dean had made gambling with it. Sam didn't need to worry about money for a while.

Sam shook himself out of his reverie and tried to calm himself. When his hands stopped shaking enough, he let the gun drop into his lap and just stared at it. He still remembered the last time Dean had touched it, fired it. He pretended he could still feel Dean's fingerprints, even though it was just a mildly comforting fantasy. The gun had been cleaned dozens of times since then. It didn't matter; Sam had become a master at pretending.

He gently placed the gun back on the folding table in front of the bed, and rose stiffly to retrieve his discarded .45 from the corner. His back was still sore from where a vampire had hurled him against a brick wall the week before. It was only bruised, but it had made getting up difficult the past few days. This, Sam could feel. Pain. It was about the only thing left that still registered, but even that was fading like all the other sensations of living. He didn't know whether he should cling to it, as a last reminder that he was still alive, or let it go.

Sam was definitely leaning toward letting it go.

"Sam?"

He spun around, raising the .45 toward the source of the voice before realizing the gun was partially disassembled, and now damaged from its impact with the wall. It took a moment for Bobby's concerned—and surprised—visage to come into focus. Once Sam's mind cleared, his gaze shifted from Bobby to the door, then to the salt line on the floor and back to Bobby.

"How did you get in here?"

Bobby frowned, crooking his thumb back to the doorway. "It was open. You should be more careful, kid. Something could have walked in on you."

Sam didn't respond, just walked back to the bed and tossed the .45—with considerably less reverence than he had Dean's gun—onto the table. He motioned for Bobby to come all the way inside, then moved to the small kitchenette and poured himself a shot of whiskey. He tossed it back, and held the bottle up.

"Want a drink?"

Bobby eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

Sam poured a shot for his friend and another for himself. _Funny, I used to get drunk a lot easier_….

He handed Bobby his drink, and drained his glass while Bobby glanced around the room with a frown. Mildly curious, Sam followed the older hunter's gaze, wondering what Bobby saw when he looked. To Sam, it was the same thing he saw every day: the bed, made with the military precision his Dad had always demanded. Notes and newspaper clippings cut out neatly and arranged on each wall in chronological order, and in order of importance; he could always tell how long he'd been in a motel room by how much of the walls were covered. Through the door to the bathroom, his few toiletries could be seen, clean and lined up perfectly along the side of the sink.

He looked back at Bobby, again wondering what the man saw. He wanted another drink, but his guest hadn't even touched his yet, and it would be rude to get another now.

"This is a nice motel," Bobby began, turning back to Sam. His mouth turned up in an amused grin. "Got a strong Timothy McVeigh vibe going, but—"

Sam looked at him, his eyebrows knitted a little as he tried to decipher what Bobby thought was so funny. He shrugged. "I'm a little OCD."

The smile evaporated off the junk-dealer's face, replaced by that compassionate frown, the same one that had driven Sam out of the man's house eleven months earlier. He hated it, the pity. He didn't need anyone's pity. He was doing the best he could. He wasn't the one who was burning in He—

Sam stopped that thought, crushing it. It wouldn't do to break down in front of a guest.

"Sam—"

"What did you want to show me, Bobby?" Sam cut him off, moving to sit at the kitchenette's small table. He suppressed a groan as his back protested the hard wood of the chair.

The older man looked as if he wanted to say something, but whatever it was never came. Instead, he pulled a manila envelope out of his coat and joined Sam at the table. The contents slid out onto the wooden surface. Maps, newspaper clippings, weather reports.

"Demonic omens," Sam deduced instantly.

Bobby raised his eyebrows, clearly not expecting such a quick response. "Yeah, that's right, but bad ones. Most intense I've ever seen. Atmospheric disturbances, too, all over the area for the last week. Something strange is going on."

Sam examined one of the maps. "Looks like it's over the Blue Ridge Parkway."

"Close to it. The center of this, whatever it is, is near Gatlinburg, Tennessee."

_Look, Sammy! Wall-to-wall jelly! We gotta stay here sometime_….

_Hey, man, strawberry or blueberry? Come on, Sammy, you know you want it_….

Sam blinked away the sudden moistness in his eyes. He and Dean had driven through the small mountain town a few years back. His older brother had immediately fallen in love. The town was famous for the jarred jelly and jam stores, and Dean Winchester's sweet tooth was never to be denied. Sam wiped the wistfulness off his face with one hand before Bobby noticed.

"Sam…" Too late. "Look, maybe someone else should take this one."

"Why?" Sam asked blandly, the familiar numbness settling over him again.

"Take a break, son. Some time off. You've been hunting for a solid year. Go see some friends, do something."

_Friends?_ Sam frowned to himself. Did he even have any? He hadn't spoken to any of his college friends since…since Rebecca and St. Louis. There was Ellen, and Jo…but he still couldn't look Jo in the eye without remembering flashes of what he'd almost done to her while possessed. She was skittish of him after that, anyway.

Sarah Blake, maybe. She liked him, he liked her— No. Sam couldn't even consider that. He had feelings for Sarah. He wouldn't risk— She wasn't safe around him. The experience with Madison had proven that.

So, where could he go? There were a lot of demons out there still gunning for him, especially after that dustup with Lilith. Even if he had someone to visit, how could he expose them to that kind of danger?

He shook off that train of thought and looked back at the notes. "I'll check it out."

"Sam."

That tone again. The voice that reminded him of a father, a family that loved him. A tone his actual father had used so rarely, Sam could count it on one hand. He couldn't accept solace from Bobby. Not like that. He wouldn't dump his issues on the older man.

He rose, ignoring the hand that brushed his sleeve, and stepped back to the counter. He took another shot of whiskey before offering the bottle to Bobby. The older man shook his head. Sam poured another shot for himself.

"Sam. Kid, I'm worried about you. All you do is hunt. When you're not hunting, you're reading these damned tomes." Bobby tapped the cover of an ancient text on demonology Sam had "appropriated" from a university library.

"I'm going to get him back, Bobby. He's not going to die for me." Sam squeezed his eyes shut. _He already did. A year ago_. He had to remind himself sometimes.

Bobby finally drained his glass, seeming to steel himself. "I hate to say this, son, I do…but Dean's been gone a year. Maybe it's time to move on. He wanted that for you. I know he did."

"Dean didn't move on," Sam muttered, eyes fixed on the countertop.

"Sam—"

"Leave the notes. I'll call you when I find out what's going on out there."

The older man sighed and moved for the door. He stopped just before opening it. "Whatever you find…call me. This job I'm working won't take more than a day or so. Don't go in alone."

Sam didn't raise his eyes, just stared at the countertop. When he stared hard enough, he could see beyond, to other times. To when he hadn't been so alone. He hated it. He hated feeling like this. He liked it better when he felt nothing at all. _Damned liquor. Not strong enough._

"Yeah," he said tightly, trying to reign in his emotions. "Yeah, I'll do that."

He didn't look up until he heard Bobby's old Chevelle start up outside.

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"Atmospheric disturbance" didn't do the storm justice. As Sam neared Gatlinburg, hailstones the size of golf balls were raining down. He didn't want to think about what the Impala's roof would look like. Static interference, laced with EVP, blanketed every radio station up to fifty miles out. He turned down the volume when the demonic muttering became enough to make even him nervous.

Rain made it hard to see more than ten feet on the highway, and nearly all traffic had stopped. Most of the cars Sam passed—only about two dozen of them—were parked along the sides of the road, waiting the rain out. Lightning bolts were arcing across the sky every few minutes, far in excess of any normal thunderstorm.

_What the hell am I walking into here?_

Sam followed the road map to the coordinates closest to the center of the storms as shown on Bobby's weather printouts. It was a small two-story house on a mountainside just south of Gatlinburg proper. Sam was silently grateful for that. He didn't want to drive through any more of the town than he had to. The risk of triggering a Dean-related memory was one he didn't want to take. As it was he still had to pass through a small stretch of the main road. That was too much for his taste.

Once there, Sam parked the car at the base of the hill where the house was situated. He didn't want to alert whatever was inside, and Dean's old Chevy rumbled far too loud for a stealthy approach. He gathered the smaller weapons bag, a canteen of holy water, and the Colt, before pulling his collar up and getting out. His clothes were soaked through within minutes.

This was going to be a long walk.

Sam kept under trees as much as he could, which didn't help with the rain or the hailstones, unfortunately, but did serve to conceal his movements for the most part. It was midday, but the stormy sky blotted out the sun so completely it looked like dusk. He crouched behind a bush, scoping the house out, and almost jumped out of his skin when a bolt of lightning struck less than a hundred feet away, making the hair on his arms stand up even at that distance.

Calming himself, Sam decided to move. The rain was picking up, and the hail was falling more rapidly, so any noise he made entering the house should be drowned out. He hoped. As Sam reached the door, he double-checked the knives in his wrist holster, pulled out the Colt and the holy water, then tried the door. It wasn't locked. He nudged the door open with the barrel of the gun, and slipped inside.

The interior would almost pass for normal if he overlooked the shattered windows and the thin film of sulfur over most of the surfaces. Sam crept forward, weapons ready, passing through the den and into the dining room. Nothing, except the sulfur, was out of the ordinary. A few broken picture frames hung at odd angles, as if someone had been tossed around. He knew all about that; his bruised back protested as he twisted slowly around a corner.

Normal stopped when Sam passed into the kitchen at the back of the house. The still-burning light bulbs in the ceiling fan flickered constantly, creating a strobe effect. The cabinets and drawers were open, their contents littering the floor. Chairs were overturned, and the countertops were stained with blood. A back door led out to a patio, but on the opposite wall was a narrower, battered wooden door. A trail of dark red blood led to it along the floor and walls. Sam grimaced. He had a feeling it was already too late for whoever lived here.

He moved to the smaller door, checking behind him before pushing it open. It squeaked and he froze, but nothing happened. He pushed it open slower, keeping the noise down. The door opened onto a steep wood staircase leading down into a basement.

A small voice in his head told him he should get help, backup. But that line of thinking only led to Dean, and Sam needed to focus. He squashed the thought and proceeded down the stairs as silently as possible. Nothing and no one challenged his movements. The floor was concrete, and lit by some flickering light or lights from around a corner. Sam could only see the bottom of the stairs and a wall from that angle.

He reached bottom, and spun around the corner, Colt at ready. Sam froze when he saw what was there.

An inverted pentagram, drawn in chalk and outlined in blood, covered the floor. Above it, hanging from the ceiling rafters directly over the five points of the star, were a man, a woman, two young children, and a dog. They hung from their feet, hands tied behind their backs. Their throats were slit, and blood pooled in each point of the symbol.

Sam just stared for a moment in horrified fascination. _What kind of sick freak kills the whole family _and_ their dog? _

All macabre musings fled his mind when the smell hit him. Frowning, he edged closer, moving around the pentagram but not crossing it.

On the far wall of the basement was another closed door. Blue and yellow lights in the next room seeped through the cracks, outlining the door in the gloomy surroundings. Sam glanced to either side, scanning the room. _Time to party_.

He moved in, hearing chanting as he got close. The door opened away from him, into the next room. Bracing the Colt over his hand that carried the holy water, he reared back and kicked the door open. It was so old, he broke the hinges, and the entire thing fell sideways, leaving the opening clear.

Inside, against the far wall, a bright blue whirlpool of light and smoke hovered a few feet off the floor, roiling like a tiny, silent hurricane. The center was pitch black and featureless, but somehow seemed to stretch into infinity beyond the wall. Sam had never seen anything like it, outside of some movie he'd watched with Dean once. Something about a Navy ship going back in time.

On the floor in front of the bizarre vortex, kneeling inside a pentagram identical to the one beneath the dead bodies, sat a young man, little older than a high school student. He stopped chanting and spun toward Sam as soon as he realized he wasn't alone. The boy's eyes were solid black—possessed for certain—and he had a bloody gash along his cheek. _Probably from the fight that wrecked the kitchen_.

He rose and lunged at Sam, snarling. Sam reacted quickly, slinging a stream of holy water into his attacker's face and sidestepping out of the door frame. The kid went down, shrieking, steam rolling off him as the holy water scorched the demon within.

It recovered enough to lock eyes with Sam. The possessed boy growled, and Sam was yanked off his feet by an invisible force and hurled into the opposite wall, landing in a heap next to the spinning vortex. A few feet to his left, and he would have landed in it. Whatever it was.

The impact caught Sam on his already sore back, and he cried out as he crumpled to the floor. He flailed, trying to get back on his feet, but his abused back muscles were slowing him down.

While he struggled to rise, the demon was already back on its feet, wiping the steaming holy water from its face and eyes. "Well, well," it wheezed. "Little Sammy Winchester himself. What an honor."

Sam kept his eyes on his opponent, but couldn't help note with dismay that the vortex was spinning faster, and more erratically, since the demon had stopped chanting. He had no idea what that meant, but it couldn't be good.

The demon stalked toward him, sneering. "The others will hate me for getting to you first."

Sam sneered back. "No, they won't."

He splashed another dose of holy water at the demon, hitting it again and causing it to stumble backward. Taking advantage of the distraction, Sam raised the Colt and fired, point blank. The enchanted bullet struck the man in the chest, just below the collarbone. Yellow-tinged energy crackled and sparked along the man's skin, and he fell to the ground with an expression of shock frozen on his face.

Sam grimaced, trying to keep his back straight as he pushed himself up the wall. Freakin' demons…. He tried not to think of the young man he'd just killed along with the bastard inside him. Pushing the thought aside, he staggered forward, glancing warily at the whirlpool of energy. It seemed to be sucking the heat out of the room, and even the air was visibly warping around the edges of the "storm."

The circle where the demon had been kneeling was the same as the one outside, though without the blood and with a few characters inverted and rearranged. Sam had no doubt the two circles were linked, but he had never seen them before. The demon was dead, but the swirling "storm" was still there. _The circles must be related to it_.

Worse, as the vortex picked up speed, it seemed to be drawing things in. Loose papers and objects all around were moving inexorably toward the disturbance. Wind was picking up as the air was drawn in along with scattered debris. Sam found it increasingly difficult to keep his footing as he struggled to reach the circle to try to shut the thing down.

He pocketed the holy water and fumbled in his jeans pocket for his switchblade, thinking maybe breaking the painted circle would be enough to disrupt its power, the way it did to devil's traps. Sam was mere inches away from reaching his goal when the wind got stronger. He had to drop to his knees and use his hands to balance himself against the force of the rushing air.

Ultimately, Sam abandoned his attempt to reach his knife, all his energy and both hands focused on keeping his place on the floor. He slid a few feet backward, and panic started to set in. He was in trouble. There was nothing to hold onto within his reach, and the concrete floor offered little resistance to the growing gale.

As his hands lost their grip, and he felt himself lifted up, Sam thought maybe he should have called Bobby after all. One last notion flitted through his mind before he was engulfed in darkness. _I hope this isn't a black hole, or I'm screwed_.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for the enthusiastic response. To answer a general question, yes I'll be updating it very quickly. I'll probably have the third chapter up by tonight and the rest tomorrow. I just have to reformat the story from how it was originally printed. Thanks!_

_I own nothing, reviews craved._

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**Chapter 2**

The first thing Sam became aware of was pain. His back was killing him even worse than before. There were already new bruises forming on top of the old ones from the demon tossing him around. Worse, the muscles had stiffened up, making it hard to move. There was something hard and sharp-edged poking him in the stomach, too.

The next thing was the water. It was everywhere, on the ground, in his nose, soaking through his clothes and his hair. More was hitting him. Was he in the shower? That didn't make sense. He didn't wear clothes in the shower. Of course, he didn't lie down in the shower, either. Unless he counted that one time a ghost had tried to drown him—

Sam shook off his wandering thoughts, coughing as water found its way into his mouth and throat. His eyes blinked open slowly. All he could see was floor and water splashing wildly, hitting so hard, it was bouncing off the concrete.

Floor. Concrete. Water. It was raining. He had to be outside. Had he passed out? _No, the vortex. That's right_. Sam had been in that basement, trying to find a way to stop the "storm," or whatever it was. But, how had he ended up outside?

Coughing again as the water splashed into his face, Sam pushed himself over with one hand, rolling onto his side. He was clutching the Colt in his other hand, tight against his belly; that was what was poking him. Already soaked, he pushed himself all the way over and dropped onto his back. His back felt better pressed against the hard, flat floor. It felt like he'd been asleep for days, but that couldn't be right, either. He hadn't had a full night's sleep in…well, in a year.

Dragging his free hand up to cover his eyes, Sam chanced a look upward. The sky was dark, a blanket of black clouds blotting out all light. Rain was pelting down, like before, only without the hailstones, thankfully. Lightning arced every few minutes, sometimes so close, Sam had to shield his eyes. Thunder rolled continuously.

_Okay, where the hell am I?_

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, fighting off vertigo, and covered his face as best he could with his free hand to block the rain. Besides the concrete floor he was sitting on, there were walls surrounding him. It took a second to click, but they were the same walls as the basement he'd been in…there was just no house above it anymore. He was facing the door where he'd entered, and could see the stairs beyond in the next area. The ceiling, and the bodies of the slaughtered family that had hung from it, were gone.

Sam twisted around to look behind him, seeing the vortex still crackling with energy near one of the still-intact walls. It wasn't pulling at him this time, or warping the air around it. Sam did note, though, that it was now spinning counterclockwise, the opposite direction as before. He wondered what that meant, if anything. The body of the demon he'd fought wasn't there.

Had the vortex somehow destroyed the house? That would make sense; since it had been sucking everything into itself, maybe the entire house had been pulled in except for these few walls. But, if that was so, how had he stayed out of it? He remembered being dragged toward it. How was he not dead?

Sam shook his groggy head. He wasn't going to figure anything out sitting there, shivering in the rain. He forced himself to stand, groaning as his stiff limbs stretched out. He looked down, scanning the floor. The Colt and the canteen of holy water were all that had survived, apparently. His weapons bag was gone. And the—

_Wait a minute_. The circular symbol was still on the floor, too, but…it had changed. It was faded, a much paler color, and the characters surrounding the pentagram were backwards. Not just inverted, but completely opposite, like a mirror image. He had no idea what the symbol or the vortex was, so he had no way of knowing what it all meant.

He needed help. Taking cover under a wrecked shelf, Sam fished out his cell phone, praying it wasn't waterlogged. He'd bought a protective case for it a few months back, while on a hunt for a water sprite, and the purchase was now paying off. The phone worked fine. He dialed Bobby's number, but then frowned. There was no signal.

In and of itself, that didn't mean much, since his proximity to the storm and the weirdo vortex might have disrupted the phone's operation, but still it bothered him. Sam didn't ask Bobby for much these days, but the older hunter was the only friend he had, really, and being cut off like this gave him chills that had nothing to do with being drenched. He pocketed the phone and decided to try again outside. Sam cautiously moved into the outer area of the basement, and proceeded up the battered stairway.

The rest of the house was little more than debris. A field of wood, brick, and glass made it look as if the place had been bombed. Picking his way across the piles of rubble took too long, so he cut across and out into the side yard. There, under the trees, he had some cover from the rain at least. Sam headed down the hill toward the road where he'd parked.

He made it halfway down the hill before it registered with his dazed brain. The car wasn't where he'd left it. He glanced from side to side, double checking. The Impala was nowhere to be seen. Sam's mouth dropped open. _No, no, no_…

He did not just let Dean's baby get taken. Besides, the demon he'd fought was dead, it wouldn't have—

He broke into a jog and looked up and down the street once he was clear of the trees and bushes. Nothing. The Impala was gone. Along with the weapons, the first aid supplies, the laptop, his clothes…the bullets for the Colt. Reflexively, Sam checked the Colt, confirming there were five bullets left in the revolver.

Something kept drawing his eyes to the right, but it took a moment to sink in. The town. From where he was standing, he had a decent view of the edge of Gatlinburg, down the road—and downhill—from the house. But, there was something very wrong. _No lights_.

The town was dark, no streetlights, no signs, nothing in the windows, and it was unusually still. He glanced up at the roiling storm clouds, wondering if maybe the lightning had knocked out electricity, but even then there would be cars moving on the roads. Instead, there was nothing. No sign of life at all.

Frowning, Sam turned and checked the other side of the road. It proceeded farther up the mountain, but so far as Sam knew, it only led over the hills and on to the Blue Ridge Parkway; there were no more houses in that direction. He turned back, and froze when he glanced at the mountaintops above the town.

Demons. Two of them, in their natural form, swirling in and out of rain clouds that were only slightly lighter in color, making the black, smoke-like creatures stand out. It was the only reason Sam had seen them at all. This couldn't be good. Demons, in his experience, rarely traveled freely unless they weren't worried about being spotted, and it was still fairly early in the day, despite the gloomy weather. He wondered if the demons had anything to do with the power outage and the house he'd been under being destroyed.

Sam suppressed a surge of fear. He needed Bobby's help to figure out what the demons had been doing here, but his phone was still down, and now the Impala was missing. He'd have to head down into town and try to find a phone. Maybe find out what was going on there, too. Sam pulled his jacket tighter around himself, and started walking, sticking just inside the tree line to stay out of sight and get at least a little cover from the pouring rain.

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The walk down was slow and miserable. Keeping under the trees kept Sam from being seen, but it was also much rougher than walking on the road. Roots, underbrush and mud hindered his progress. It took a little over half an hour to reach the outskirts of Gatlinburg.

Worse, his dizziness had developed into a major headache, and his back was killing him. All he wanted to do was hole up somewhere, pop some painkillers, and pass out for a little while. But that wasn't an option. He needed to find a phone and make some calls. Maybe get a drink.

Sam's feeling of dread grew as he reached the first intersection inside the town. There wasn't a soul on the streets or the sidewalks. The shops were all dark, not even an emergency light on anywhere. There were cars parked here and there, almost like normal, but all were empty. Trash flitted down the streets, driven by rain and wind. Weeds poked through cracks in the pavement and sidewalks. _Odd_.

What struck Sam most of all, though, was the silence. Aside from the thunder and wind, there wasn't a manmade sound to be heard. Not even a dog or wild animal. It was as if all life in the town had simply been extinguished.

Sam clenched his teeth and made for a pay phone. After glancing around to be sure he was alone, he left his hiding spot alongside a souvenir shop and sprinted across the street to a phone mounted beside a bike rack.

He picked it up, but there was no dial tone. Growling in frustration, Sam slammed the receiver down and darted for cover beneath a shadowy restaurant awning.

If those two demons he saw weren't in town, they were still in the area, and his only weapons were a little holy water and the Colt. Not a good situation. Sam scanned the gloomy line of stores and restaurants, stopping at the next intersection. A mom-and-pop convenience store. Surely they'd sell salt, maybe something made of iron he could use. _Better than nothing_.

Sam moved quickly and quietly, glancing around corners carefully before crossing side streets. The stillness was eerie, and more than a little unnerving. There had to be someone left. No disaster killed everybody.

He finally made it to the next intersection, crossed the road in a sprint, and dropped behind a busted newspaper box, Colt in hand. His eyes settled on a telephone pole directly in front of the store, and his blood ran cold. Engraved in the wood of the pole, in block letters, was one word.

CROATOAN.

He bit back a curse. Just like Rivergrove. Had Gatlinburg been hit with the same demonic virus he and Dean had encountered in Oregon? This didn't make sense, though. Everything had been fine when he briefly passed through on the way to the house. That virus had taken hours to take hold, days to kill everyone in town. _How long was I out?_

Sam shook his head. He was getting nowhere fast. He needed to regroup. He eyed the broken newspaper machine and grabbed a paper out through the open front. Tucking it under his arm, he rose and slipped through the open door of the convenience store. He flipped the light switches by the door, but nothing happened.

Fortunately, though it lacked electricity, the place had a little of everything else Sam needed. A few cartons of salt, flashlights and some batteries, several bottles of water, a roadmap, some non-perishable food, painkillers, and a few other necessities all went into a trash bag. Sam made sure he wasn't being followed, then made for the back of the store, Colt in hand.

There was a small break room and office behind the register, which Sam ducked into. He locked the door and poured down salt lines to seal it off along with the vents and windows. Feeling secure, if not all that safe, Sam placed his makeshift duffel on a table and dug out one of the flashlights.

The room was just large enough for the table, small desk, safe, and television it contained. Sam tried the TV, more on reflex than anything else, since he didn't expect anything with all the power off. The only light was the faint gray glow from the shuttered window. Frowning, he sank into a metal folding chair and pressed his back against it. The pain wasn't much better than it had been during the long walk into town, and he popped a few painkillers out of one of the packages he'd collected. Fortunately, the medicine wasn't strong enough to knock him out. He couldn't afford to fall asleep just yet, not until he knew the extent of what was going on.

Sam picked up one of the flashlights and the paper. At least he'd be able to see what had happened in the past few days. It was unusually thin, lacking many of the usual sections, which was strange, even for a local edition. Unfolding it and intending to look at the date, Sam's eyes were instead drawn immediately to the first headline.

THE END IS AT HAND, SAY RELIGIOUS GROUPS

Sam grunted. _Not happy news_.

The article below was choppy and unedited, as if the printers had been publishing as quickly as they could. Reports of people going crazy in record numbers, horrific murders, riots, fires, mass disappearances, populations fleeing to the mountains and Midwest, away from the major cities, martial law being declared. It was unbelievable.

Sam was stunned. He thought of the demons he'd seen in the sky on the way in. Had the demon army finally somehow gotten their war machine going? Lilith, the demon he and Dean had fought just prior to— Sam's mind shied away from Dean's death even now.

They'd neutralized Lilith, at least temporarily. Sam and Bobby had been keeping an eye out for signs, but she hadn't re-emerged in the past year. Therefore, the demon army still had no leader…that Sam knew of. Besides, even if the demons had rallied together, how could they have launched such a devastating attack on the world in such a short time? He flipped back to the first page, searching the bylines for the date.

June 14, 2012

Sam just blinked for a moment, his mind not processing. He read it again, then aloud. He knew he'd been losing track of time a lot since Dean—

No. That was impossible. It was late May 2009. He glanced at his watch, which had stopped. That wasn't a surprise; supernatural activity often stopped clocks. But the last date was what interested him. His watch, at least, agreed with him.

May 20, 2009

Sam looked back at the paper, which still insisted he was three years into the future. _Impossible_.

Wasn't it?

_The vortex_. A time portal? Yesterday, had he been asked, Sam would have said there was no such thing. He'd never run across a demon that could manufacture a time warp.

The Trickster could do it—had, in fact, to Sam—but Sam hadn't seen the troublesome demigod since, and it had no reason to be going after him again. Sam filed that away, but didn't completely dismiss the possibility. In the meantime, though, he could only deal with what he knew for sure.

Assuming all this wasn't one of the Trickster's illusions, it seemed a demon had opened a portal, to the future, an alternate universe, something. Sam needed to find a way back to where he belonged.

If that was even possible.

With the Impala gone, along with everything he owned, he had to find help. Bobby seemed to be the only choice.

As messed up as it was, all the landmarks and details of Gatlinburg seemed correct—save the ruins and overgrowth—compared to what he remembered about the drive through town earlier that day. Sam frowned. _If it really was earlier today_.

00000

Sam adjusted the backpack he'd liberated from one of the knickknack shops littering the main road through town, and crept down the street as quickly as was safe. The cheap garbage bag from the convenience store he'd used as a carryall hadn't lasted long. Sam tried to ignore the image of Hannah Montana smiling at him from the front of the bag.

Dean would never let him live it down. Sam smiled, forgetting for a moment that Dean would never see it.

Except, Dean wasn't there. He shook his head. That hadn't happened in a while. For months after Dean's death, he had caught himself wondering what Dean would think or what he would say when Sam told him something. That kind of thing was supposed to be helpful, a way of maintaining your connection to a lost loved one. To Sam, though, it just reopened the wound every time.

_God, I need a drink_.

He forced the morose line of thought aside and focused on the task at hand. After figuring out what he needed to do, Sam had waited until nightfall—such as it was, since the sun had never come out from behind the storm clouds, so he'd just waited until it was at its gloomiest—before leaving the convenience store's back room. It had taken a little while, but he'd found a car stowed away in a garage, nice and safe from the weather, and used the meager auto-shop lessons Dean had taught him to get the car ready to move again.

He'd already found some gas, lined the floorboards and windows with salt, and even painted devil's traps on the roof and trunk. All Sam needed now were some new sparkplugs and a new battery for the engine.

The local hardware store was easy to find, and he had the items he needed in minutes. Keeping the Colt out in front, he proceeded back out onto the sidewalk. He dared not use his flashlight, and was navigating by the flashes of lightning that still crashed around the area. Keeping an eye out for demons or other dangers was more than a little nerve-wracking in that environment.

The store wasn't too far from the two-car garage where he'd found the car. The one-story house attached was empty, and no sign of the owners remained beyond a few dark bloodstains. Sam made it back to his new ride and unloaded his supplies in less than half an hour. Here, with the door closed, he was safe enough to use his flashlight and make a little noise while working.

Time was impossible to tell here, but his internal count put it at around midnight when he was finished. Presuming, of course, the sun still rose and set at the same time as it was supposed to behind those thick clouds. All Sam had to go by was the glow along the horizon when he was walking down from the house he'd woken up in.

At last, he was done with the engine. Dean's lessons had paid off. He started to close the hood but paused, a thought occurring to him. _One more thing_.

He grabbed a screwdriver and a few other tools, and opened the headlight covers. He unscrewed the bulbs, replaced the covers, then carefully repeated the process on each of the marker lights along the sides and the taillights. The eye-level brake light in the rear windshield wouldn't open, so he simply smashed that one. He was taking a huge risk driving out into the open where any demon or creature could see him, so Sam might as well take the precaution of driving without lights. The risk of hitting something on the storm-darkened roads was less significant than the risk of getting spotted.

Besides, he had the unnerving feeling that there may not be anyone else on the road to hit, darkness or no darkness. Placing the borrowed toolbox in the back seat, Sam walked forward and raised the garage door, careful to look outside before turning back to the vehicle. This one had more legroom than the Impala, but he gladly would have traded it in to have Dean's car back.

Sam dropped into the car and proceeded to hot-wire the ignition. He didn't breathe again until the long-unused engine turned over and the car started. With a sigh of relief, he put the car in gear and pulled slowly out onto the road. _So far, so good_.

Rechecking the map, he chose a route that would lead him west, toward South Dakota and, hopefully, Bobby. Sam paused, glancing at the empty passenger seat, and stared for a long moment. Sam would have thought he'd be used to it by now.

God, more than monsters and demons and crazy time-twisting vortexes…he _hated_ driving alone.

00000

Without stopping, it was usually about a twenty-hour drive from eastern Tennessee to South Dakota. This time, however, it took that long just to travel halfway. Fortunately, the heavy thunderstorms had cleared up about an hour out from the mountains, and he was able to navigate by the light of a full moon.

Sam stuck to back roads until he cleared Gatlinburg to avoid the inevitable traffic jams that always resulted from mass panic and evacuations. If the newspaper he'd read was accurate, most of the cities would be like that, so Sam adjusted his route accordingly. He used the Interstates when he could and veered onto the less-traveled country roads to get around the congested cities.

That was his theory, anyway. In actuality, the back roads weren't much better. Obviously, others had thought the same way as Sam when the various calamities had hit, and Sam found himself having to backtrack to get around roadblocks, pileups, and hundreds of abandoned cars on many of the roads.

In many places, thick veils of fog hung low to the ground. It gave him a modicum of cover, if not comfort, since it made navigating with no lights even harder. He tried Bobby a few times on his cell, but still couldn't get a signal.

Dawn broke over the eerily still landscape, and that was when Sam started seeing more ominous sights than just empty cars. On a mostly deserted stretch of I-24 outside Clarksville, he ran across a dozen or more wrecked and blood-soaked cars blocking the road. He was able to drive around on the shoulder, but when he glanced off the road, Sam saw why they'd been abandoned. Twenty corpses hung from trees in a grove about ten feet from the roadside, all of them in crucifixion poses. The bodies were little more than bones and tattered clothing, so they'd been there for quite some time.

He stared in shock for a few long moments, then shook himself and glanced over the rest of the scene. From the looks of it, these people had been dragged from their cars and just slaughtered. There were a few signs of a struggle, but if demons had done this, Sam knew the people hadn't stood a chance. Unwillingly, his eyes moved back to the corpses.

To say it was unnerving was an understatement. Sam reflexively checked his mirrors and looked around, fear and paranoia making him anxious. Had he run across this with Dean, or Bobby, and under normal circumstances, he would have gotten out and tried to determine what had done this and why. But he was alone, and the world was feeling a little upside down right then.

Sam didn't stay long enough to investigate.

Some twenty-two hours into his journey, Sam was finally approaching St. Louis and the Mississippi River. Not the best time he'd ever made traveling. Added to that, the monotony of keeping an eye out for any airborne demons and road obstructions was taking its toll, and he was bleary-eyed and more than ready to sleep.

Against his better judgment, Sam gave in to the urge to rest and found a secluded bridge to park under. Satisfied he was out of sight, he double-checked the lines of salt that safeguarded the interior of the car, switched off the engine, and slid down in the seat out of sight. The backpack made a halfway decent pillow, as it turned out.

It was nearly ten o'clock at night. He'd sleep for an hour or so, and then resume his journey. He just hoped nothing found him while he rested.

00000

_The bridge was one of the old iron truss types, similar to a railroad bridge. He noticed protection symbols painted on the outermost supports, ensuring no demon could cross._

_He drove the car across slowly, keeping an eye out for anyone or anything. The only structures nearby were the remains of a small gas station and a derelict water tower._

_He was about halfway across the span when a flash of light caught his eye. He barely had time to register that it came from the top of the water tower before a blinding agony pierced his chest—_

Sam bolted awake, gasping for air. Frantically, he ran his hand over his chest, searching for a bullet wound, but found nothing.

"What the hell was that?" he muttered quietly. Sam brought his breathing under control and pushed himself up on the seat. The remnants of the vision played through in his mind, punctuated by the throb of a splitting headache. He hadn't had a vision in a while...a few months, at least. His psychic abilities had only reemerged just before Dean's death, and weren't nearly as pronounced as they'd been when the Yellow-Eyed Demon's activities were triggering them.

Sam thought he recognized the bridge he had seen, but couldn't place it. It was certainly not along the route he was taking to Bobby's. But, seeing himself get shot… He didn't know what that meant. Was there someone else alive somewhere?

He couldn't decide if that was good news or not. Rubbing absently at the spot where he'd been hit in his vision, Sam decided it probably wasn't.

Glancing out the windows, he was relieved to note he still seemed to be alone on the road. The moon was out again, casting an eerie glow along the landscape. Sam couldn't quite tell what time it was. He guessed it was after midnight.

Cursing silently to himself for sleeping longer than he'd planned, Sam cranked the car and left the cover of the overpass. He needed to get to Bobby's.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sam had found less obstructed roads after circling past St. Louis, but whatever time he'd made up driving a little faster on the open stretches of highway had been set back again when he'd turned north.

Outside of Ottumwa, he'd spotted a swirling cloud of demons on the horizon, and had hurriedly parked the car in a grove of trees off the roadside to hide. Sam couldn't tell what they were doing from that distance, but an hour went by before they moved off, heading southwest in the general direction of Kansas City like a living tornado.

Sam decided to stay on the same highway and head for the north side of the state. Best to put as much distance as possible between himself and the roving pack of demons. He stayed on that road until reaching I-90 just across the Minnesota line, and turned west, only to be stopped again outside of Sioux Falls. He hid under an overpass that time, but lost three hours while another group of demons roved a few miles ahead of him.

How were they not sensing him? Sam seemed to be the only living human for miles. He set the question aside, almost dreading the answer. _Shouldn't complain about small favors._

As he sat and watched them going about whatever incomprehensible and probably evil business they had, Sam halfheartedly munched on a protein bar and tried not to think. He tried not to think about all the empty cars and deserted roads. He tried not to think about the bodies he'd seen hanging at the roadside. He especially tried not to think about Gatlinburg's unnerving silence. For the first time in a year, he felt a strong emotion that wasn't grief.

Fear. Chilling, bone-deep fear. _What if I'm alone here?_

When the demons moved off, he resumed his journey, but the nagging fear remained, pressing at the base of his skull. It drove him to be less cautious, driving a little faster despite the danger of being spotted. The sooner he reached his destination and found some answers, the safer he'd be.

Sam finally reached South Dakota, and found the roads leading to Bobby's blessedly clear. He allowed himself a small feeling of relief. He'd find Bobby, get an idea of what was going on, and find some way to stop it, just like Dean would.

Funny how he was still trying to make Dean proud, even now.

He tried studiously to ignore the fact that his brother was beyond caring, but couldn't prevent a grimace as the thoughts kept on chasing each other around his mind. Suddenly angry at himself for reasons he couldn't quite identify, he crushed the small feeling of relief he'd felt, welcoming in its place the comfortable numbness he'd gotten so used to in the past year.

_I just need to find Bobby. That's all_.

But when he came into view of Bobby's junkyard, his mood darkened even further.

The house was…well, the house was gone. What little remained was in a scattering of boards and brick, spread over at least an acre. The collection of cars and parts out back—Sam tried not to remember it was where Dean had spent so much time reassembling the Impala after the crash—was a desolate debris field. There were signs of a long-since burned-out fire.

Sam grabbed the Colt and got out of the car, though he was fairly certain nothing alive—human or otherwise—remained here. He staggered to a stop near where the front steps of the house had once existed. That's when it hit him.

"I'm alone."

For the first time since Dean had died, Sam was truly alone. He'd often felt alone, even in Bobby or Ellen's presence. But this was totally different. Bobby wasn't here; he was very likely dead. There hadn't been a single living human soul for the last 1,300 miles. Sam really was totally alone.

His gaze drifted over the devastation that had once been his last close friend's home. There was nothing left. No books. No boxes full of tools or weapons. _No Bobby._

Sam's hunter instincts kicked in, overriding the grief and fear that now threatened to paralyze him completely. He had few options. Finding a place to hole up was pretty counter-productive. There was no cavalry coming to his rescue. Plus he'd have to gather more provisions, and the more he scavenged around, the more the danger of being spotted.

He could head back to Tennessee and try to figure out how the vortex worked. But Sam didn't have the faintest notion of how to go about using the thing. The inscriptions in that circle were totally unknown to him. Bobby's books would have been the first place he'd have looked, but that was obviously out of the question now. Simply jumping into the thing and hoping he woke up where he started was too dangerous.

For starters, Sam didn't know for sure that he had even come _through_ it, though that was a strong possibility. Second, he didn't know if the demon's chanting had anything to do with it. Sam might get himself killed trying to use the thing blindly.

He wasn't afraid of dying. Some part of him would welcome an end to the lonely, hellish year he'd endured. But he'd promised Dean. Promised he'd stay alive, no matter how much he stopped wanting to.

More important to Sam, though, was that if he tried to use the demon's weirdo vortex and got himself killed, Dean's one remaining hope of getting out of Hell would die with him. Sam hadn't given up on his brother. He'd been scouring every book and every lead he could find to bring Dean back safely. He'd found nothing yet, but it was Dean's only hope.

Sam refused to risk that on a desperate hunch.

But that left him no options. _Staying here in Bizarro World isn't going to help Dean, either._

Sam's foot caught under a board, stopping his aimless pacing. He glanced down to kick his foot free, and gaped in shock.

A man's arm lay under the rotted wood. It was just dried bone, apparently having been there for a long time, but it was still clad in the remnants of a flannel shirt and a battered wristwatch. Bobby's wristwatch. Sam recognized it.

He stumbled away, barely catching himself on a pile of bricks before retching. Whatever had happened here had torn Bobby to pieces. _No_….

Bobby had been in his motel room, alive and well, just two days earlier. Sam reeled, reality starting to settle in. Bobby was dead. He remembered that it was Bobby who had given him the amulet he'd planned on giving his father one year for Christmas. Sam had instead given it to Dean, and it now hung from the rear view mirror of the Impala. Bobby had taken them in after their father's death.

Bobby was dead.

Sam morbidly wondered if the rest of the older hunter was strewn across the property, too, and almost retched again.

Sam struggled to control his rolling stomach, and turned back to the remains. He had to rely on his hunting skills. He was alone and no one was going to help him. Steeling himself, he stepped back over and looked. It was Bobby's arm, all right. But what was next to it drew his attention. On a slat of wood, part of the house's exterior, four small handwritten words were scrawled in what Sam's trained eye identified as blood. He suppressed a shudder. The words were simple and to the point:

DEVIL'S GATE IS SAFE

Sam frowned. That conflicted with everything he knew to be true. A devil's gate was anything but safe. As doors to Hell, they were incredibly dangerous, and the few known to exist were heavily guarded with protection symbols, traps, and spells laid down by hunters throughout—

Sam blinked. _Guarded. Protected by devil's traps. Wyoming. Of course_.

The devil's gate they'd found in the cowboy cemetery in Wyoming—the one the Yellow-Eyed Demon had used to release his army in the first place—was protected by an enormous solid-iron protection circle over 100 miles wide, built by Samuel Colt more than a century earlier. Some of Bobby's hunter friends had arranged for the damaged circle to be repaired shortly after their showdown with Yellow Eyes. It would presumably have been safe from the demon army.

A safe haven for humans.

Sam quickly did the math in his head. The old cemetery was about 700 miles from Bobby's. Normally, it would take about eleven hours to get there. Based on his experience getting here, he doubled the estimate. _Another day's travel_.

If he could find survivors, though, it would be worth it. Hell, he might even find someone who could help him get back to where he belonged, if that was possible. _Definitely worth the risk_.

Sam stayed at Bobby's another hour, scavenging fuel from the flattened storage shed out back and filling the car. He paused before leaving and offered a silent prayer for Bobby, and that the older man's death had been quick. The surge of grief for his friend was squashed. Sam needed to function with a clear head. He'd grieve once he was safe.

If he made it that far.

The road was racing again beneath the borrowed car's tires a few minutes later.

00000

Sam was right about the travel time. It took him most of the night to get out of South Dakota, and most of the next day was spent crossing Wyoming. The number of demons he spotted was increasing. He was forced to stop and hide the car four times after crossing the state line. Sam wondered why so many were here. The trip out from Tennessee had been harrowing, but he'd seen very few demons.

That afternoon a storm front moved in, and the heavy rain—while nerve-racking to drive through on roads dotted with debris and wrecked cars—served as cover. Despite nearly sideswiping two burned out cars in the near-zero visibility, he managed to drive the rest of the way unnoticed.

Darkness fell just one hour before he reached the outskirts of Colt's huge devil's trap. _So far, so good. _

Sam just hoped he found help, otherwise the entire trip would be for nothing. If that was the case, he wasn't sure what he would do.

He kept his eyes peeled as he crossed over the railroad tracks that formed the circle. There wasn't a soul in sight. There weren't many structures in that area of the state, so there were few good hiding places. That was both good and bad for Sam. On the one hand, he could see anyone nearby, but on the other, he would be unable to hide himself if worse came to worst.

A few more miles down the road, he spied a large metal truss bridge. Sam felt a chill go down his back as he realized it was the same one from his dream two nights before. Dread filled him and he had to suppress a jolt of fear at the sight. At the same time, it finally clicked. He had recognized the bridge because he and Dean had driven over it the first time they'd gone to the old cowboy cemetery.

Sam slowed the car to a crawl, taking as much time as he could before reaching the bridge. He'd been trying to form some kind of plan for this eventuality, but his only idea was risky at best. He knew he would be shot at when he reached the middle of the bridge. While the knowledge terrified him, he forced himself to stay analytical. He had to think his way out of this problem.

Getting out of the car and walking would only leave him more vulnerable, and trying to find another route was problematic, considering the number of demons he'd been seeing since crossing into Wyoming. Even if he stayed inside the protective circle of railroad tracks, his chances of being spotted increased the more he drove around.

So, he needed to get across this bridge, and do so without getting killed. _No problem. And for my next trick…._

Nearing the entrance, Sam slowed even more and surveyed the scene before him. Everything was as he'd seen in his vision. Protection symbols marked the upper trusses of the bridge. An old boarded-up gas station and derelict water tower stood silent vigil over the other end. The moon was even peeking through the clouds in just the right place.

_Showtime_.

Sam carefully unlatched the driver's side door so it would open faster and unbuckled his seatbelt. He ignored the ding of the seatbelt warning from the dashboard. He was barely a car length from the midpoint of the span, and, on the count of three, he yanked the car sideways and dove for the floorboard.

A heartbeat later, the windshield was smashed and a hole burst open near the top of the driver's seat. Sam kicked the door all the way open, grabbed the slat of wood from Bobby's house that had the remains of the white trash bag he'd taken in Gatlinburg tied to it and scurried out of the car. He crawled around to the rear fender, board in one hand and Colt in the other, and raised the wood over the side of the car.

Not exactly a flag, but it was white and waving.

Sam flinched when another shot ricocheted off the trunk lid, but he kept the flag up in plain sight and held his breath. He only had five bullets in the Colt, and wasn't keen on wasting them on a long-range gunfight with what he hoped were humans.

A moment later he heard a shout, and some rapid-fire arguing. One of the voices said something about not shooting. Sam hoped that was good. He waited, keeping up the waving as he crouched out of sight.

The sound of footsteps approaching from the far end of the bridge made his heart beat faster, and Sam braced himself, pressing his back against the fender. He didn't have to wait long.

A man dressed in hunting fatigues, wearing a battered ball cap and carrying a sniper rifle, appeared behind the open front door, and hurried around, pointing the weapon at Sam.

Sam returned the favor, slowly bringing the Colt up. He was trying to surrender, but Dean hadn't raised an idiot. Leaving yourself completely unarmed in these situations was inviting trouble, and Sam had enough of that.

"Drop it," the newcomer ordered. He almost looked like a younger Bobby.

Sam pushed the thought aside. "I don't want any trouble."

A new voice behind him caused Sam to snap his head around. "Drop it, kid, and you won't have too much."

A second shooter had circled around behind him. Sam suppressed a flash of irritation. He should have thought of that. So much for Dean's training.

Sam glanced between the two men, hoping they were interested in taking prisoners. Either way, Sam had little choice. He slowly aimed the Colt toward the sky, and deliberately moved to place it on top of the trunk lid. Eyeing the nearest rifle, he equally slowly lowered the board and placed his hands in plain view atop his knees.

The first man stepped closer, coming around the open door, blocking Sam in between them. When he came close enough for Sam to see his eyes, the man froze.

"Whoa…whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell? Nick, are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

Sam frowned, and began to worry about the man's sanity. Maybe he should have taken the chance and found another road.

The other man stepped a foot or so closer and cocked his rifle. "A godsend is what I'm seeing. The boss is gonna be happy."

Nick's friend wasn't as sanguine about it…whatever they were talking about. "Are you crazy? He'll kill us both!"

"Not if he's unconscious."

Sam was thoroughly confused now, and turned toward Nick to risk asking what they were talking about.

Just in time to see the butt of Nick's rifle coming right at his face.

00000

Sam awoke to a throbbing headache and darkness. A slow, fumbling attempt to move revealed that his wrists and ankles were tied. He sighed. Things kept going from bad to worse.

The darkness wasn't much of a problem. It was pretty obvious there was a bag over his head. Sam had been there a few times before, so wasn't particularly worried about that. Instead, he focused on gathering as much information as possible.

He was bound and in the dark, but there was no gag, so that was good. He was lying on his side on a hard, cold, moving surface. It took Sam's sluggish mind a few seconds before he settled on _truck bed_.

They hadn't done a good job of searching him. He was still wearing his watch. The Colt was gone, but his wrist holster was still strapped to his right arm, and still concealed two knives. Sam considered sawing through the ropes and freeing himself but stopped. It wasn't like he had anywhere to run to, after all. He'd wanted to get to the devil's gate in Wyoming to see if any humans were there.

Sam grinned ruefully. _Mission accomplished_.

Somewhere above his head, he heard a heated argument going on between Nick and the other guy who had captured him. Sounded like they were in the cab with the windows down.

Nick's pal didn't sound happy. "This is crazy, man. We should have killed him."

Sam grimaced. Nick's buddy certainly wasn't on his side.

"He gave himself up, he didn't attack us. Besides, you know what they said," Nick replied confidently.

"Yeah, yeah, alive if possible, but come on. We've got the friggin' Antichrist in the bed of our truck! We shoulda killed him and worried about the boss later."

_Antichrist?_ Were these some of Gordon's pals? Surprise gave way to dread, and in turn to anger as he processed the thought. Was Gordon behind his violent reception on the bridge? The demented hunter had done all too good a job of making other hunters wary of Sam, and the mistrust Gordon Walker had sown had survived long after his death. It made working with anyone besides Bobby or Ellen impossible in the year since Sam had been hunting alone. Not that Sam minded. He'd welcomed it after a while. No one could replace Dean, anyway.

"Chuck, calm down. You know what they'd do if we'd just shot him out here before the boss—"

"They aren't out here, Nick!"

_Great. Nick thinks I'm a trophy and Chuck's gunning for me. What have I gotten into now?_ Sam sighed silently and did his best to relax against the cold steel of the bouncing truck bed. Without making noise, he slid over against the wheel well to keep from being jostled so much. Fortunately, his back was feeling better now; the sharp pain had shrunk to a dull ache over the past few days.

Sam let his eyes drift shut and turned his attention inward. The headache was bad, but he didn't feel any nausea or dizziness. He definitely had a black eye from where the rifle had struck him. He wrote it off and filed it away with the extensive list of bruises and minor wounds he'd collected in the past twelve months.

Damage check completed, Sam let his mind drift back into the comfortable numbness he'd become so familiar with since losing his brother. It was easier there, quieter. He didn't feel the burning hole Dean's death had left in his soul and was free from the sympathetic looks and compassionate stares he'd learned to hate.

Sam had spent a great deal of time cultivating that numbness. It was a good substitute for sleep. He didn't dream of his brother there. Didn't see Dean suffering in Hell.

He relaxed his neck so he could let his head loll against the cool metal. Sam spent a few moments wondering if these yahoos might shoot him, or would their boss? _Not like there's anything left here to live for, anymore…._

After all, Dean had only barred him from killing _himself_. He hadn't said anything about other people doing it for him.

00000

By Sam's ever-working internal count, the truck had traveled for another ten minutes before lurching to a stop. He made a concerted effort not to move, which actually proved pretty easy. Sam barely stirred when he heard Nick and Chuck get out and felt their hands hauling him out of the truck. He let them drag him and merely stood obediently when they finally released his feet.

The ground beneath him changed from rough to smooth, probably linoleum judging by the squeak of one of their shoes. Their footsteps echoed softly in the silence; he could even hear it through the bag, and Sam wondered if they were in a museum or church. He tried to remember the map he'd studied at Bobby's that day they'd gone to stop the gate from opening, but he couldn't remember anything but the five churches built at the points of the giant iron pentagram.

His musings were cut short when he was slammed down onto a wooden chair. He grunted as his tailbone impacted the hard wood, but said nothing as the two men untied his wrists, pulled his arms behind him and retied his hands to the back of the chair. He'd been prepared for that, given his treatment so far.

Sam was less prepared for the blast of water that hit him in the face through the bag. He coughed and gasped for air, barely hearing the conversation in front of him.

"Why'd you bother? Never worked on him before."

"Better safe than sorry."

His ears perked up as the words sank in.

"Before?" Sam asked between gasps. "What do you—"

He was cut off when a fist hit him in the jaw.

"You're alive because the boss wants you that way. Don't give us any reason to stop caring what he thinks."

Sam did as he was told, shifting his jaw to ease the pain. The men said nothing further and, shortly after, he heard the door click shut.

He sat there, working his jaw and occasionally shaking his head to clear it, for the next twenty minutes, then froze when he heard the door open again. Years of hunting in dark places had given him—and most hunters—an innate sixth sense when it came to knowing whether or not he was alone.

He wasn't alone.

Sam kept his mouth shut. He knew he was in trouble, and on one level didn't want to know who had entered the room so quietly. As the long silence dragged on, Sam tensed, expecting a blow, or worse. Another uncomfortable minute passed before he dared speak.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

The only response was the sudden removal of the canvas sack from his head. Sam flinched as his eyes struggled to adjust to the harsh light in the room. For a moment, all he could see was a pair of boots near his.

"I don't believe it," a new voice said. "What do you have up your sleeve this time?"

Sam frowned at the abrasive voice. _Why does everyone think_—

He froze. He knew that voice. But…it wasn't possible.

The voice kept going, not waiting for him to answer. "Just walk up and let people grab you…what's the game? Have you seen the error of your ways again?"

Sam barely heard the rest. He looked up sharply, ignoring how his eyes strained against the too-bright light, and forced them to focus on the source of the voice. It just wasn't possible.

"Dean?"

Sam barely heard the rest of what his visitor was saying. His mind was stuck on _oh, my God, it's Dean_…. He couldn't process anything else. The last time he'd seen his brother, the hellhounds had been taking him away, clawing at him as they dragged him bodily into Hell. Dean's screams had haunted Sam's every waking hour for months afterward. Now, after spending a year in a lonely, hollow existence, all the grief Sam had buried was threatening to burst through its walls and smother him.

Dean was standing in front of him, whole and decidedly alive.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"I-I can't believe it. _Dean_?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. _It's been a year…. _

His attention snapped back to the present when the back of his brother's hand smacked across his face.

"Answer the question, Samuel!"

"It's Sam," he shot back reflexively. He couldn't catch himself in time. No one had called him "Samuel" since his early teens, and no one had called him anything but "Sam" in a year.

Dean's cold gaze darkened even more, and he lifted the hem of his shirt. "That's what I thought once, too. Then you gave me these."

Sam's mouth dropped open in shock. Dean's torso was marred with scars. If he didn't know better, Sam would have thought he'd been repeatedly whipped. But… He took in this man's appearance for the first time with a more objective eye.

Dean was paler than Sam remembered, his face more gaunt, his eyes cold and ringed with dark smudges indicating lack of sleep, which Sam knew because he saw the same smudges on his own face all the time nowadays. It was Dean, but a more world-weary and run-down version. It seemed like the air around them chilled as Sam came to an awful realization about what Dean was saying.

"Me? I did this to you?" Sam was too astonished to think any further than that. "No. No, I—I'd never—"

"Save it," Dean snapped. "I've believed you too many times."

Sam blinked, trying to think of something that would help all of this make sense, but before he could say anything else, the door opened again.

Seeing Dean was a shock, but the next person to come in bewildered him. It was Sarah Blake, the young art dealer he'd met more than three years earlier and had never really stopped thinking about, even if he had forbade himself from ever seeing her again in order to keep her safe.

But this…wasn't the Sarah he remembered. Her flowing brown hair, which he so clearly remembered running his hands through, was pulled back into a severe knot behind her head, making her look much more businesslike. And deadly. She was just as pale and gaunt as Dean, and—most differently—was toting a shotgun.

A shotgun that was pointing in his general direction.

_I really need a drink_…. Before he could speak, she favored him with a glance that icy didn't quite adequately describe. Sam shut his mouth and simply watched as she stalked over to Dean, carefully keeping the gun pointed at Sam.

"What are you waiting for, Dean? End him while you still can."

Sam's blood ran cold at the words. "Whoa, whoa. _What_ is going on?"

Sarah ignored him. "Don't listen to his lies. You know better."

"Wait," Sam interjected, still trying to get past whom he was looking at and what they were saying. "Sarah. Dean? What are you talk—?"

"Kill him, Dean, now, before his friends show up," Sarah kept on, totally oblivious to Sam's interruptions. "He probably broke the circle on the way in here."

Sam frowned, looking at Dean in frustration. Sarah wasn't going to give him a chance. Whatever they thought he'd done, it was bad. But Dean, to Sam's surprise, was staring back at him, doubt showing in his still-cold eyes. Sam saw it there, as plain as it had always been. He could always read his brother.

Sarah, however, didn't seem too interested in doubt. She pulled back from Dean angrily. "Fine. I'll do it."

The shotgun being thrust into his face punctuated it. Sam panicked. He had to think of something to stop this, fast. He searched his mind frantically. "Wait, wait, _wait_! I-I didn't break the circle! I'm just looking for some help!" He squeezed his eyes shut, silently praying, waiting for her to pull the trigger.

He kept waiting as the seconds slowly ticked by. Everything went silent for a long beat, and Sam finally realized nothing was happening. Eventually, he screwed up enough courage to crack one eye open.

Dean was gaping at him, one hand holding Sarah's shotgun so it was aimed more or less safely over Sam's head.

Sarah glowered at Dean. "Let me do this. Dean! Let me do this so you don't have to."

"Wait," Dean growled, nodding toward Sam. "_Look_ at him, Sarah. The eyes. The voice. Everything. It's different. This isn't Samuel."

Sarah jerked the gun out of Dean's hand and stepped back, fury darkening her features. Sam was sure that if things didn't start making sense, his head was going to explode. He listened to Sarah and Dean exchange heated words.

"Of course it is!" she yelled, indignant. "He's doing it again, Dean. This is not your brother, it's a monster. He destroyed everything, and now he's after us!"

Something in Sam snapped, the stressful days he'd spent journeying from Tennessee catching up with him. "Jesus! I'm out of it for a few days and the whole world goes crazy. Look, I'm not here to hurt anybody! I'm not this Samuel, I'm just Sam. You have to believe me!"

"Gee," Sarah sneered, "I think I heard this one a few years ago."

Sam looked back at Dean, silently pleading for help. He had to get a break here before someone put a bullet in him. Whoever or whatever they were convinced he was, he had to prove otherwise. A thought occurred to him. It was the only card he had to play, even if it meant giving up his only way out. He hoped Dean would listen.

"I can prove it! My arms."

Both Sarah and Dean cocked their heads at that, confusion briefly replacing the doubt and contempt in their eyes. Sam swallowed his impatience and explained.

"Dean, look at my arms, under the sleeves. I'm tied up, I can't hurt you."

Disbelief lit Dean's eyes. Sam wondered why. He really couldn't hurt anybody while trussed up like this. Dean moved slowly around behind him, and lifted the sleeves of Sam's shirt. Sam carefully kept his eyes forward so as not to antagonize Sarah in any way. She'd raised the shotgun a few inches when Dean moved. Sam took a deep breath, and talked slowly and clearly.

"The wristwatch, take it and look at it. On my right arm, you'll find two knives, a short one and a switchblade."

He felt Dean's hands removing the items, studiously not touching Sam at all. His movements were surprisingly calm; Sam had figured the items would be yanked off.

Dean moved back into view, eyeing the items in his palms, glancing only briefly at Sam.

Sam plowed ahead. "I could have gotten out of these ropes at any time. You know that, you taught me how." Sam squashed the memory of those lessons, learned so many years before from a much different, kinder brother than the one before him now. "I didn't. I wasn't trying to escape. I told you, I need help, that's all." He watched Dean's gaze sweep over the watch and knew he had to go for it. "Look at the date."

Dean did so, blinked, then looked back at Sam. "Okay?"

"May 20, 2009. That's when the watched stopped."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Obviously. So what?"

Sam pressed his lips together; it was now or never. "So…that was about five days ago. For me, anyway."

Dean's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, then dropped back to the watch face. Sam saw it before Dean's mask of suspicion slipped back into place. He'd hit his mark; he had Dean's attention. He watched silently as Dean and Sarah shared a look.

Sarah's hateful glare flicked from Dean to Sam and back. "I don't believe him."

Sam's gut twisted. If this didn't work, he didn't have any other reasons for them not to kill him. He looked back at Dean, who was impassive but still staring at the watch.

"Sarah," Dean said quietly, the whole tone of his voice changing, confiding, "I have to know for sure."

For her part, Sarah clearly wasn't swayed. Sam wondered what had happened to turn the kindhearted Sarah Blake he remembered into this woman. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But he noticed her voice changed when she addressed Dean, growing minutely softer. "He could be lying. Probably is."

Dean lifted his gaze to Sam, still impassive. "There's one way to know for sure."

Sam bit the inside of his lip, curious as to what that could mean, his eyes darting to Sarah, who seemed alarmed.

"Dean, no. It's too—"

"It's the only way. I don't think this is—" Dean paused, then shook his head. "If I'm wrong…." He pulled a silver handgun from his belt.

Sam steeled himself. The end of the unspoken thought was clear enough. If Dean wasn't convinced, Sam was a dead man.

Sarah stared hard at Dean for several long moments before seeming to relent. "Fine, it's your call." Turning to Sam, she leaned in, mere inches from his face, and grit her teeth. "I'll be right back. You so much as peek out that door without Dean holding your hand, and I'll blow your damned head off."

Sam believed her. Sarah stalked out of the room, leaving the two men alone.

"Hotheaded for a brunette," Dean muttered with a smirk.

Sam dragged his eyes from the door back to Dean, who was examining the watch again. "Dean—"

"Shut up. I'm not convinced yet."

Sam obeyed, deciding to examine the floor very closely. The closest thing he'd found to an ally was almost ready to kill him. He reminded himself of why he'd come here. The portal, or whatever it was, was probably his only ticket out of this screwed up world-future-whatever.

Given his welcome so far, Sam was beginning to wonder if he hadn't thrown away his one chance to get home the moment he'd set foot in Wyoming.

Then, a less rational part of his brain overrode all thought of portals and the events that had brought him here. All that part focused on was Dean. He was with Dean. Dean was alive. Sam had to bite back the flood of questions building on the tip of his tongue. _How did you get out of Hell?_ was at the top of his list. It was difficult staying silent as he'd been ordered.

About ten minutes went by while Dean stood inspecting the watch and Sam tried not to look worried. Neither of them was very successful, in Sam's opinion, since they kept stealing glances at each other.

Sam couldn't put into words, even in his own mind, what he felt seeing Dean, alive, if not all that well. He'd prayed for this day, spent endless nights researching for a way to make it happen, to bring his brother back. To atone for his failure to save Dean when he was still alive.

_Yeah, now he's here and might kill you_, Sam thought morosely. Not exactly what he'd wanted.

The door opened slowly, and Sam received his third shock of the day. Or maybe his fourth or fifth; he was losing count.

Missouri Mosley hobbled in cautiously, weight supported by a wooden cane. Sam's eyes widened as he watched the dark-skinned psychic come in, eyeing him warily. He was getting used to that look.

She stopped a few feet away, staring at him. "Been a long time."

Sam frowned, wondering about that, but saying nothing. At this point, he figured the less he talked, the better.

Missouri apparently wasn't expecting an answer, and looked at Dean. "Sarah told me what you wanted."

Dean merely nodded in reply.

"You're asking a lot," Missouri retorted coolly.

As Sam observed the conversation, he couldn't help but wonder what was being said nonverbally. Missouri had proven very capable of reading thoughts right out of their heads when he'd first met her almost four years earlier. He blinked at that. Was it still just four years?

"I'm sorry," Dean said softly. "I wouldn't ask unless it was important. I'm right here watching, so I'll shoot him if he tries anything."

Missouri snorted humorlessly. "How reassuring."

With a small sigh, the older woman looked into Sam's eyes, narrowing hers as she fixed him with a piercing stare. Sam squirmed a little under the examination. He felt the slightest of tingles inside his skull. The same feeling he'd gotten when he had first met her and she'd plucked the strongest thoughts out of his head just by looking at him, though he hadn't known what it was at the time. She was reading his mind. Sam wasn't nearly as proficient a psychic as she was, but he'd picked up enough on his own to know when he was being read.

Her gaze sharpened, and he saw surprise color her features, then she frowned. "It isn't him…isn't Samuel, but…."

Dean tensed. "But?"

Missouri's mouth dropped open slightly, then she laid her cane aside and bent forward, reaching for Sam's leg.

Dean's hand intercepted hers. "Wait. It's not safe."

Missouri smiled at Dean. "It's all right."

Dean withdrew his hand, and Missouri rested hers on Sam's knee. He knew physical contact made psychic links stronger for some. Images rose unbidden in his mind. His drive across country during the past few days. Finding Bobby under the debris. Waking up in that rain-soaked basement. The weird bluish whirlpool that had started all this.

"It was a door…," Missouri breathed, almost too softly to hear. Sam couldn't look away from her eyes; he was transfixed. The room was narrowing in his peripheral vision. Sam felt like he'd float off the chair if not for the ropes. He thought his question instead of speaking it; it was easier than trying to remember how to use his mouth. _A door to where?_

Missouri didn't answer, just pressed harder. Sam's mind bucked under the pressure, but he didn't try to block her out. He wouldn't have known how, anyway. The images moved faster now, and he saw the entire year he'd spent alone flash by, then they slowed again as the memories reached the night Dean died. He experienced it all over again in seconds. His vision started to swim. _Please, no_, he begged. He couldn't do that again.

Sam barely noticed Missouri's eyes were wet, too, as she pressed on, the images moving faster and faster. His brain felt like it was on fire, and the images were moving too fast for him to perceive them anymore. _You don't belong here, Sam_.

Abruptly, it was over, and a blazing headache erupted behind Sam's eyes. His head dropped until his chin met his chest, and he was shaking like he was going to come apart. Missouri's hand patting his knee just barely registered.

"I'm sorry. I had to be sure."

Sam let his head hang. It felt like there was a jackhammer inside his skull, trying to get out. Breathing was about all he could manage to do. Dean's and Missouri's voices barely pierced the bubble that seemed to surround him. His brother's voice. Dean was alive. He wanted to revel in that news, wanted to be so happy about it…but it was all he could do to breathe and not pass out.

"This is your brother, but he's not from this world."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's from another. He doesn't belong here, Dean."

Sam frowned at that. Another world? The small part of his brain that wasn't mush decided that the news fit with his alternate universe theory. That thought brought no comfort, though, as his head lolled. He couldn't gather enough strength to lift it, even if he'd wanted to. His ears were ringing, making everything echo around him, and his eyes throbbed whenever he tried to open them. All of which paled beside the fiery pain that threatened to split his skull apart. It felt like Missouri had sawed his head open.

"He doesn't look so good, Missouri. What did you do?"

"He'll be fine. But you two need to talk."

Sam blocked the rest out, focusing on regaining some of his self-control. He'd spent months burying and restraining the grief he'd felt over Dean's death. Missouri had demolished those barriers, and Sam was drowning in it again. He was already feeling a little stronger in the wake of the psychic reading, but he kept his head down, as much to conceal the wetness on his face as anything else. Somewhat irrationally, he didn't want Dean to see him cry. If this _was_ Dean. If it even mattered.

_God, I hate this. I wish I'd never come here_.

His arms were suddenly free, and someone placed his hands in his lap, pressing a wet cloth into one of them. That hand was lifted and the cloth pressed onto his face. Then the other hands were gone. Sam pressed the dampness against his eyes for a few minutes, then slowly lowered it, chancing to look up a little.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked with what sounded like the smallest twinge of concern.

Sam stared at the gun that hung loosely in Dean's hand, then dragged his eyes to Dean's. "Depends what you're gonna do with that, I guess."

Dean glanced at the gun, then shrugged and placed it back under his belt. He paused. "Want a drink?"

Sam chuckled softly, the absurdity of it all hitting him. "Thought you'd never ask."

00000

Sam spent the next half-hour sitting with Dean in another room of the building. Turned out it was an old schoolhouse that had been built beside one of the churches inside the circle decades earlier. They moved to a glassed-in administrative office that had been converted into a small living area. Dean broke out two plastic cups and a bottle of whiskey he described as "our last one."

They drank in silence, Sam nursing one glass, slowly taking the edge off his experience with Missouri. He caught himself sneaking looks at Dean when the other man wasn't looking. It'd been so long since he'd seen him, it was odd being in the same room with him, even though Dean looked very different now. Worn down. Almost defeated. Sam had missed him so much, though, that none of the changes seemed to matter.

He felt almost giddy. He'd worked and prayed for this day, the day when he'd get his big brother back. At the same time, he tried to comprehend it all. He'd fought a demon, got sucked into another time and world, and now he was sitting in a darkened room with his brother, sharing a quiet drink. The rapidity of all those events left him dizzy.

After a few more minutes, he couldn't hold back the questions any longer. He opened his mouth to ask Dean how he'd escaped from Hell and when.

Dean broke the silence first, holding up Sam's watch. "So, what's this all about, and why do you keep staring at me like that?"

The tone of his brother's voice killed Sam's curiosity, and the questions died in his throat. Dean was all business. While the explanation of how Sam was here had been accepted, Sam himself hadn't been, yet. He tried to ignore the hurt Dean's distrust caused him.

"Like what?" Sam stalled, keeping his eyes on his cup.

"Like you want to break down and have the world's worst chick-flick moment."

Sam looked at him then, soberly. "It's just that I haven't seen you in… Well, in a long time."

He quickly recounted the last year of Dean's life, of his attempts to reverse the deal, then thrust out the cup to get another shot from Dean's bottle. His brother complied, and Sam downed another gulp before finishing. "The last time I saw you was one year ago. You were being dragged off to Hell. I've been hunting alone ever since."

The details of his worst failure he skimmed over. He couldn't quite stomach rehashing it all, anyway. Losing Dean had been the single worst event of his life. He'd endured twelve months of waiting for it to come, fighting to save his brother from his deal, and twelve months living alone with his guilt after he failed. _How do you put that into words? How can you possibly ask forgiveness from someone who went to Hell because of you?_

Sam blinked, realizing he'd trailed off, and slowly continued, laying out the broad strokes of the past year, Bobby asking him to check out the storm in Tennessee, the demon he found, and the vortex.

Dean nodded, taking it all in. "Hmm. Well, everything up to when I died, all that sounds exactly like the way it happened here, except…Sam, that night when I was taken…that was _seven years ago_."

Sam blinked, doing the math. 2015? "But, the paper, I thought—I saw a newspaper, the other day in Gatlinburg. I thought it said 2012."

Dean huffed a humorless laugh. "Yeah, it probably did. That'd be about right. That was the last time there was any kind of organized news or government. All that pretty much stopped when the big cities were lost."

Sam grimaced. He'd been piecing together a lot of clues the past few days. It was all adding to something he didn't want to hear, but he figured he needed to now. "Demons?"

Dean nodded, staring off past Sam's shoulder.

"The war?" Sam murmured. "We lose the war."

"Well," Dean shrugged, "_we_ lost it. Don't know about your side."

Sam leaned forward. Silently praying this wasn't going the way he feared it would. "How? Was it Lilith? Did she—"

Dean's mood visibly soured. "No. Not Lilith. You."

_No. No, no, no_. Sam's blood ran cold. "Me? You mean…I—"

He broke off. This was exactly what he'd feared. The reason they'd treated him so roughly when he'd been brought in. His destiny, the one he and Dean had fought so hard to avoid, what the Yellow-Eyed Demon had wanted from the start…maybe he couldn't avoid it, after all. At least, this world's Sam hadn't. This Sam had gone bad, and apparently was leading the demon army like Yellow Eyes had wanted. Everything was falling into place now.

"My turn, I guess," Dean said, taking a swig directly from the whiskey bottle. "No one really knows when it happened. Ellen told me later that one day you just fell off the map. She and Bobby looked everywhere, but you were just gone. They figured you'd been killed. Hunt gone wrong, you know?"

Sam's stomach sank; he'd already guessed what was coming. Dean shook his head.

"Ellen said you popped up about a year later, around your birthday in 2011, I think. But, you weren't _you_ anymore."

"I went darkside," Sam whispered, pained.

"Big time. Most hunters didn't realize it until it was too late. By the time word got out, most of them were dead. Bobby…was saved for last." Dean grimaced, the pain plain on his face, and downed another shot before falling silent again.

Sam shuddered. He'd seen what had happened to Bobby. To think he could have done something like that…actually, he didn't have to imagine it that much. The Trickster had shown him how dangerous he could get without "going darkside." Sam wondered if this would have happened with Jake had he lived through the opening of the devil's gate.

He felt queasy, but swallowed the bile and turned back to Dean. "What about you? How did you get out of Hell?"

It was clearly a sore topic. Dean's eyes turned dark and faraway, lost in a memory. "About four years ago, Samuel—that's what my Sam started calling himself, Samuel the First. He thought it was funny. Anyway, he found a way to break my deal and bring me back."

Sam sighed quietly. "At least something good came from it."

Dean's mouth twisted into a snarl, causing Sam to straighten up in his seat. "Um, maybe not so much."

Realization dawned on Sam then. _I thought so once_…_until you gave me these_. "The scars. He—_I _did that to you? That's what you meant before." Sam was horrified.

Dean's glare shifted from the wall to Sam, and he started to say something, but his expression abruptly softened and he shook his head. "Not you. Samuel wanted me back, but not as a brother. More like a slave, entertainment."

Sam felt sick again. He wished he could blame it on the alcohol. "I'm sorry, Dean."

The older man shrugged, placing the cap back on the whiskey bottle. "Told you, it wasn't you. I tried. I tried to get him to stop, to reach something of my brother that might still be left, but…. He's sick. Twisted. He was too far gone. Anyway, he got careless after a while, and I managed to slip out with a few others he was keeping around, and eventually we made our way here."

Nick and Chuck's conversation clicked into place. "You're the boss they were talking about. You're in charge here?"

Dean rose and placed the whiskey bottle back in its place on the counter, huffing lightly. "Not by choice. After I got away, well, I just wanted to crawl in a hole and die, you know? I'd spent three years in Hell—or _more_ really, time moves differently there—and when I finally got out, I find my little brother's turned into the Antichrist. Not exactly the world I wanted to come back to."

"Yeah," Sam muttered. He was reeling from all this. It was crazy.

"So," Dean began, standing by the counter, "this weirdo vortex, what? You got there, killed the demon, and just jumped into this thing?"

Sam laughed breathlessly. "Not exactly. It pulled me in. I didn't have a choice in the matter. When the demon stopped chanting, it started pulling at everything in the room."

Dean surprised him by grinning. "And when you woke up, everything's crazy and Spock's got a goatee?"

A true laugh escaped Sam this time, though to his ears it was bordering on hysterical. A mirror universe was about the best explanation he could come up with for all this. "Yeah, something like that. If you'd asked me last week if I'd ever…I don't even know. Fall into another universe? That's insane, right?"

Dean was staring at him, maybe wondering if he was losing it. Sam thought Dean might be right. "Hey, Sam, why don't you call it a night? I can't imagine you've slept much since you got here. Missouri's brain-sucking thing probably didn't help either."

Sam couldn't argue with that. Even after the drink, his head still felt like it was splitting open. He followed Dean to the other side of the room, and settled in on a beat-up couch, pulling his jacket shut.

Sleep, which had eluded him for so many months, came quickly. During his last few seconds of consciousness, Sam idly wondered if maybe it was because of who else was in the room with him.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_I'm glad people are enjoying this one. I should have the rest of it up tonight. _

_I own nothing. Review please! I need reviews the way S4 Sam needs blood! LOL_

00000

**Chapter 5**

He awoke to the sound of rustling. Sam cracked open his eyes, searching the dark room for the source of the noise. He found it in a chair near the door.

Dean was sitting there, using a sliver of light from the hallway beyond to search Sam's backpack.

Sam quietly sat up and swung his legs off the couch, watching the older man silently.

A year ago, he might have spoken up, told Dean to respect his privacy and to not mess up his bag's organization. But that was a year ago. Sam was a different person now. And, hell, this wasn't even his brother, was it?

"'Bout time you woke up, Princess."

Then again, it sure as hell sounded like his brother.

"What time is it?" Sam asked groggily, watching Dean pick through the meager collection of supplies he'd scavenged from Gatlinburg.

Dean shrugged. "Around midday. Dude, Hannah Montana? Really?"

Sam glowered at him. "It was the biggest one I could find." He watched a little longer as Dean reached the last of the items in the bag. When he couldn't hold back any longer, he huffed. "I thought you believed me."

"I do. You're still alive, aren't you?" Dean shot back, not missing a beat. He looked up. "I'm just seeing what you brought with you. Don't get your panties in a knot."

Sam snorted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand. He wanted to earn his brother's trust, needed to, though he couldn't really put into words why. It mattered, he knew that much.

He froze when he heard the distinct sound of a gun hammer being pulled back, and slowly lifted his eyes. He found Dean holding the Colt, drawing a bead on an old, nonfunctioning light fixture in the corner.

"Dude, you got it back."

"What?" Sam asked, confused. Dean eased the hammer down and held up the gun so Sam could see.

"We never got it back from Bela," Dean explained, then added, "the bitch."

Sam pursed his lips. _Interesting_. While most of what had happened to him in his own universe—and how weird was that to think about?—matched what had happened here, there were differences. He and Dean had retrieved the Colt from the professional thief. This Sam and Dean hadn't. He wondered what else might be different here.

Besides the fact that the Sam here had turned evil. He still couldn't completely wrap his head around that. What had gone wrong here? Back in his own world, Sam had heeded the Trickster's warning. While there were those, like Bobby and Ellen, who had compared him to a walking zombie sometimes, he had managed to steer away from actions that were morally questionable. He'd viewed it as his duty to Dean to stay one of the "good guys," even if it had made fighting the war against the demons harder on occasion.

_The Trickster's warning_…

Sam thought about it again, something nagging at him. "Did you ever look into a mystery spot in Florida?"

Dean looked up at him and blinked at that. "Um…I don't know. I don't think so."

Was that it? Had the Sam from this side never gotten the Trickster's sneak preview of how desperate and soulless he could get after Dean's death? He hadn't experienced the demigod's cruel joke, and been as careful. Was it that simple?

"Why do you ask?" Dean prompted.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. I was just curious."

Before Dean could reply, the door opened a little wider and Sarah appeared beside Dean's chair. She dropped two water bottles and two small bags into the other man's lap, murmured something, then cast an icy look at Sam before leaving. Before Sam could say anything, Dean moved, bringing Sam a bottle and one of the bags.

"Lunchtime," Dean explained. He dropped the backpack near Sam's feet. "And by the way, that bag looks like it was packed by Obsessive Compulsives Anonymous."

Sam frowned. He'd always been a little OCD. Dean had picked on him about it constantly, and, according to Bobby, it had only gotten worse since Dean had died. Sam didn't understand the big deal everyone made about it. So he liked to organize his stuff. It was his business. But he said none of that to this Dean, just let it pass and examined the small bag he'd been handed. It was stamped "Meals-Ready-to-Eat" and "U.S. Army" on the front.

"MREs?" Sam asked with a bemused smile.

Dean shrugged. "Fresh food's hard to come by nowadays. We lucked out with these, too. We were scoping out on an abandoned Army base a few years back, before Samuel and his pals found us. We brought hundreds of cases of these back with us. Hell, the paperwork says if we keep 'em cool, they should last about ten years."

Sam opened his and found tuna in a pouch, some cheese, and candy, among assorted other items. He wasn't really thrilled about eating any of it, never having developed the tolerance for these meals his brother had, but he'd been living off the few protein bars he'd found in Tennessee, and he needed to eat something more substantial if he wanted to keep his strength up. _Besides, I've eaten worse_….

They ate quietly for a few minutes, Dean digging in, Sam picking at his. This world's Dean had the same appetite as the one Sam knew. Some things didn't change, he figured. Sam wallowed in memories. How many meals had they shared like this? How many times had they been in exactly these positions? The mood was different, strained, awkward, but Sam knew what it had once felt like, longed for it.

Finally, Dean broke the silence, talking in-between bites. "Dad dropped me and Sam off in the woods near Pastor Jim's church once. Survival training. He'd driven in circles for hours so we wouldn't know where we were. We walked those woods for two days—"

"Before we figured out we'd been right behind Jim's rectory the whole time. I remember that," Sam interjected.

Dean stopped and looked at him, pausing for a moment before a faintly surprised expression formed. He shook his head in what appeared to Sam to be disbelief. "Oh. I guess you would. Heh, you were so mad at him for tricking us."

"I was mad at Dad for a lot of things back then," Sam replied sadly. "Slinking around the woods all weekend eating instant food and shooting at targets isn't exactly high on a fourteen-year-old's list of priorities."

"I guess not." Dean nodded…although such priorities had always been on his list, Sam knew. "It was fun, though."

"Oh, you had a blast, I remember. Went all Rambo." Sam paused, lost in the memory for a moment. He never thought he would have longed to be back there. "I'm glad Dad did it, now, though. It saved our butts more than once."

Sam got quiet, letting his eyes drift around the room. He vaguely sensed Dean's eyes on him but didn't look over to confirm it. Instead, his attention was drawn to the chicken-wire window in the wall by the door. A few people were moving through the hallway, some casting suspicious glances his way. But Sam's attention settled on Sarah, who was just outside, kneeling in front of a small, lanky-armed boy whose shaggy hair was falling into his eyes. She seemed to sense Sam's stare and shot him a dirty look before moving the child farther away.

Sam blushed, embarrassed to be caught staring at them, and sank self-consciously a little deeper into the shadows by the couch. Dean's stare was inescapable, though.

"Well, well," Dean clucked, clearly entertained. "You still got the hots for her on your side, too. Who woulda thought?"

Sam glanced at Dean, then at his meal, then back toward Sarah, rapidly losing his appetite. "Dean…I'm not sure I really want to know, but…why does she hate me so much?"

Dean hesitated, chewing slowly and pinning Sam with a piercing stare. "Remember when I said a few others escaped Samuel with me?"

Sam nodded.

"Well, Sarah was one of them. There were four of us at first, me and her, two other guys. We snuck out in the middle of the night when Samuel's guards were occupied 'playing' with some poor devil they'd captured in Kansas City. Samuel was using this house as a base—one of those fancy mini-mansions with a walled-in yard. We made it to the road before any of them realized we were gone. We split up. Sarah and I went north, the other two went east. We never saw them again."

Sam grimaced at the thought of Sarah being a prisoner, especially since he remembered Dean's scars so vividly. "Sarah… Did he—? Did Samuel…hurt her the way he did you?"

Dean looked uncomfortable. "No, nothing like that. But, what happened between them is Sarah's business. I can't get into it. Nothing personal, okay?"

Sam looked at Dean, almost hurt at being shut out. He reminded himself that he was still new here, and he wasn't exactly in a position to expect to be trusted. He changed the subject. "Who's the kid she's with?"

The other man shrugged noncommittally. "Someone she takes care of."

The unspoken message was loud and clear. _Don't ask about that, either_.

Letting the matter drop, Sam turned back to his meal. He managed to force down several bites despite his disdain for the stuff.

A few more minutes went by before Dean spoke up again. "So, I asked around while you were sleeping, and there aren't too many experts on demonology here. I managed to scavenge a few books from Bobby's place a few years back. You're welcome to look at those. Maybe you'll find something about that weirdo portal of yours. But I don't think you should be going anywhere yet. You still look like crap."

Sam raised his eyebrows slightly at that. Not exactly the acceptance he'd been hoping for when they'd started this discussion.

When they finished with the food, Dean led Sam down the hall to what looked to be an old school library, albeit a small one. The place must have been quite old, since the entire building was barely half the size of any of the schools Sam had attended in his youth.

"There are two of these old schoolhouses," Dean explained. "Plus a warehouse and a few scattered shacks and trailers, all inside Colt's circle. Altogether, there are about two hundred people living here. It's the only place in this part of the country where humans can stay safe from the demons."

"They haven't tried to get in at all?" Sam asked, doubtful.

"Sure they have. That's why we sanctified all those old iron bridges and bless the water in the streams every few days. Makes for a lot of natural barriers to keep demons and whatever undead monsters they might throw at us out of here."

"What about Samuel?" Sam asked, feeling odd since he was really talking about _himself_ in a way.

Dean shook his head. "He's been preoccupied running down survivors for a long time now. Hell, I haven't seen him but once since I ran away. But, just in case, we keep the edge of the circle patrolled. We'll know if he shows up."

As they walked, Dean instructed him to stay close. His face wasn't going to be a popular one with the people who lived there, and he shouldn't be wandering around alone. The memory of Sarah's similar, if more belligerent, warning the night before still rang in Sam's ears, so he had no trouble obeying.

Dean settled Sam in at a table with a few dozen tattered, dusty books from the late Bobby Singer's collection. Sam forced down the memory of that. Finding Bobby dismembered in the remains of his house… He focused on the books. It was a lot of reading, but it wasn't unlike what he'd been doing for the past two years, trying to break Dean out of his deal. A lot of the books he was looking at now covered the same material.

And a lot of them were as slim on demonic time-space portals as they were on crossroads deals. Sam didn't have a lot of luck in the first ten books. Staring blindly at one of the pages, he wondered why he was even looking. His brother was ten feet from him, alive and relatively well, considering. The world one of these books might show him the way back to was…empty. Dean wasn't there, might never be again. Sam was alone in that world, surrounded by hunters who distrusted him and demons that wanted him dead.

_Dean's here, he's right here. Why go back at all?_

Sam had trouble shaking that line of thought. Missouri was right; he didn't belong in this world. But he didn't really belong in his own world anymore, either.

Across the room, Dean was holding meetings with a few other men and women who came and went for the rest of the afternoon. Nick and Chuck, along with others, met with Dean, reporting on what their patrols were seeing. Sam stopped reading and listened when they mentioned a nest of vampires that had taken up residence outside the western edge of the protective circle.

"Sanctified bridges and holy water won't keep those out," Dean muttered. "Double the patrols in that area."

"We're spread pretty thin as it is," Nick protested.

Dean was adamant. "No choice. If those things get in here, it'll be a big problem. Do it."

"Okay, boss." Chuck nodded. They left the room, leaving Dean and Sam alone again.

"So," Sam started. "This is like…your command center?"

Dean smirked. "Not exactly the French Underground or the Rebel Alliance, I know."

Sam blinked, throwing the older man a surprised look.

"What?"

"No." Sam laughed. "Just…the French Underground? I thought you didn't pay attention in history class?"

"I didn't," Dean defended. "But I used to watch all those old war movies with Dad all the time when we were growing up. Like _The Longest Day_. John Wayne, dude, it was a classic."

"Oh."

Dean crossed his arms. "Don't tell me you never saw any of them. Dad watched those things every time they came on TV."

Sam shrugged sheepishly. "I was more into cartoons back then."

"Heh. Right." Dean grinned. "You and those damned Thundercats. I swear that's where you got your hair style."

Turning back to the books, Sam chuckled. "Jerk."

"Bitch," Dean shot back.

Sam froze, his eyes slowly lifting back up. He saw Dean frozen as well, throwing him the same surprised look Sam was sure was on his own face. They'd slipped back into that easy banter they'd always shared. As different as this Dean was from his own, Sam couldn't get around how similar he was, too. He thought he saw a glimmer of a smile on the other's face before they both turned awkwardly back to their respective work.

00000

It was late in the afternoon before Sam found it. "Here."

Dean looked up, then sauntered over to the table where Sam was marking the page in one of the old books. "Find something?"

Sam nodded, reading the rest of the Latin text on the page. "Yeah, I think this is it. Someone else tried to create one of these portals around the turn of the last century. It had the same circular symbols as the one I came through. Apparently, the writing on the circle determines what world you want to connect to…but it takes some serious black magic and a lot of energy to even find another universe, let alone _open_ a door."

"Well," Dean grunted. "You said there were atmospheric disturbances, lots of lightning. That's a lot of energy right there."

"It works like a gate," Sam continued. "In theory, someone using it can cross over into another world, then come back through the same way. The circles appear in front of the portal on both sides, exactly opposite each other. If we break the circles on both sides, the door should close."

"'In theory,' 'should'? There's a lot of uncertainty there. Did anyone try it to be sure?"

Sam skimmed the rest of the page. "Um, no. But the hunters who found it interrogated the demon for a long time, and they seemed pretty satisfied it was telling the truth."

"Okay." Dean stood and started pacing. "Say we get you through this thing and seal it. What's to stop someone from coming along and opening a new one?"

Sam flipped the page and pointed to a star chart. "Apparently, these doors can only be opened during very specific cosmological conditions."

Dean stopped and turned to him. "Cosmological? As in, planet alignments and all that?"

"Right, which means once we close it, we won't have to worry about it again for decades, maybe centuries."

"So," Dean said, staring at Sam for a long moment before gesturing to the book, "I guess that's all you need, then."

"Yeah…I guess so. Just, uh, need to get back to Tennessee in one piece."

Dean's expression grew guarded, and he studied a map of the U.S. that was pinned to the wall. "Shouldn't be _too_ hard. You got here by yourself without attracting attention. Working together, we should be able to get you back there even quicker."

_Working together_. Sam faltered. Dean was right in front of him, alive. They were a team again.

"You okay?" Dean's voice broke into his thoughts.

Sam glanced up and met Dean's curious look briefly. "Yeah," he mumbled. _I got what I came for_. He frowned. Why didn't that make him happy? When he thought of the world he'd left back there, the bleak, lonely life he'd been leading…he wondered.

His introspection didn't go unnoticed. Dean was frowning at him. "This is good…right?"

Was that disappointment in his brother's voice?

"What? Yeah! Yeah, sure…sure it is." Sam shrugged. "Like Missouri said, I don't belong here." _Or anywhere else_….

Dean nodded hesitantly, almost remorsefully, and turned back to the map. "We can start back tonight."

Sam nodded in agreement, and started jotting down the important information from the book. That nagging feeling of loneliness assaulted him again, but he pushed it aside. This was what he'd come for. _Wasn't it?_

A knock at the door a few minutes later broke the silence. It was Nick, from the bridge.

"Dean, you should see this."

Dean motioned for Sam to follow, and the trio left the room and climbed a service ladder in a nearby closet. They emerged on the roof. Sam noticed the sky was overcast, as it had been for most of his time there. He noticed two people—one of them Sarah—standing near one edge, looking through binoculars, and a little farther down, a man with a sniper rifle was set up under the metal shell of a ventilation shaft. _Lookouts_, he realized. Dean certainly had a lot of bases covered with his people.

Nick led them to where Sarah and the other woman were standing. The woman handed Dean her binoculars. Sarah kept hers, staring at Sam. Dean looked pointedly at Sarah, handed his set to Sam, and gestured for hers. She didn't argue.

Sam was impressed with Dean's show of trust. He was silently asking for Sam's input into whatever the lookouts had seen.

Sarah seemed less than happy about it. "Southeast and there in the east."

They raised the glasses and searched. In both directions, a few miles away outside the protective circle, demons swirled about in their natural forms. Lots of them.

"I count about two dozen," Dean said grimly. "Sam?"

"At least," he replied, lowering the binoculars. "Maybe three."

"More all the time…."

Sam shot a look at Dean. "What do you mean?"

The older man shook his head, patted the lookout on the shoulder approvingly, and motioned for Sam, Sarah and Nick to come back inside.

Once back in the makeshift command center, Dean marked a black X on the map of Wyoming that was spread across his table.

"This is the third time in a week we've spotted demons massing near us. Something big is coming," Dean told them.

Sam looked over the map, counting the black X's. "All these sightings are on the southern and eastern parts of the circle. If they're planning an attack, it'll come from this side."

Nick snorted. "Kinda obvious, isn't it? It could be a feint to draw our attention."

"It could be, but it's not. They already have their feint," Sam retorted. At Nick's quizzical look, he added. "In the west."

Nick didn't look convinced, but Dean was nodding. "The vampires. They know all our protective symbols and blessings won't stop them, so they got us to draw our patrols to the west this morning."

"We've got to get them back here," Sarah spoke up.

"You don't have time," Sam muttered miserably. Sarah shot him an accusing look, so he stated the obvious. "This circle is a hundred miles wide, the reinforcements you sent out on foot will have to come all the way back… It'll take hours."

"And since we conserve what little gas is left, none of them left in cars," Dean added, running his hands over his face. "I screwed up. I shouldn't have sent them."

Sam looked over at him. "You had no choice. The demons were playing you. They knew your procedures."

Sarah turned on him. "Gee, I wonder how!"

Before Sam could open his mouth to defend himself, Dean placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "I was with him the whole time, since last night. Sam didn't communicate with any demons. It wasn't him."

She didn't look convinced, but Sam spoke up anyway. "Look, whether you trust me or not, we're all in danger now. Dean, you've got to call those extra men back."

"Do it," Dean ordered Nick. The grizzled hunter nodded and left the room. Dean cast a weary look at Sarah, and Sam thought he saw the briefest flash of fear in his eyes. "This could go bad fast. You should get all the civilians together, be ready to evacuate if we have to."

Sam watched Sarah march from the room, then turned back to the map with Dean. "What is the evacuation plan?"

Dean pointed to a spot near the bottom of the circle, a few miles from the school. "We keep six old buses fueled up and ready to go. We load as many people as they can hold, which is just about everybody in the southern half, and head south. There's another safe zone in Texas. A few more trucks and buses are kept to the north. They'll carry those people toward Canada. Better to split up."

As he looked at Dean, Sam felt his stomach churn. He hadn't been back with Dean long, and the old signals and clues were a little different, but they were still there and Sam could still see them. Dean was lying. _About what?_

He swallowed, suppressing the obvious questions that threatened to spill out, and followed as Dean purposefully moved over to a schematic of the schoolhouse. Drawings indicated which entrances were guarded, which had devil's traps painted on the floors, and which were kept lined with salt. Sam noted with some discomfort that there were six major exits, and mentally counted the number of armed people he'd seen walking around inside. The numbers weren't encouraging.

"I'll move the shooters out toward the border. Demons can't cross in unless the iron tracks are broken. The snipers can take out any human they see approaching."

Sam glanced at Dean's profile, unable to read the expression. It wasn't hopeful, he knew that. He involuntarily thought of Sarah and that small boy she'd been talking to earlier. "I suggest moving anyone who doesn't need to be here away. Toward those buses, maybe. The demons will probably hit us here first, and the fewer civilians there are in harm's way the better."

"Sarah will take care of that. We planned the evacuation pretty well."

The lack of emotion in Dean's voice bothered Sam more than he cared to think about. The brother he remembered only got like this when a situation was hopeless. He tried to come up with something helpful to say.

"Dean…this place is locked down like a fortress. We can keep them out. You've survived this long."

Dean didn't look up from the table. "It's time for you to leave, Sam."

Sam was caught off guard. "What?"

"The car you used is behind the building. I suggest you head south, into Utah. Get on what's left of I-70 and head for St. Louis. You can be in Tennessee in about a day if you don't stop."

"Are you kidding?" Sam asked incredulously. "You're gonna need all the help you can get, Dean!"

"It won't matter, Sam."

"The hell it won't! There are—"

"There are thirty-plus demons out there," Dean interrupted. "Plus another fifty we spotted three days ago. Plus another thirty we counted two days before that. That's more than a hundred, Sam. We've learned to tell the difference between them, we know they were all different groups, and if I know Samuel, that'll just be the first wave. He's been busy opening gates, summoning them. He's freed thousands of them from Hell since this all started. We've got twenty-five experienced hunters spread across a hundred miles, with maybe thirty more in training. They're just _kids_. They've never faced down demons before."

Sam held his hands out in exasperation. "All the more reason—"

"This isn't your fight, Sam. Get out of here while you still can."

"This _is_ my fight, Dean. That's me out there, laying waste to everything Dad taught us to protect! And you're my brother—"

"No, I'm not!" Dean yelled, swiveling on him so fast Sam thought he was going to be punched. "You're brother is dead! He died so you wouldn't have to. I remember making that decision, Sam. He didn't do it so you could get yourself killed in a hopeless battle."

Dean's words from a year before floated back to the surface of Sam's thoughts. _You live, Sammy. I bought you a second chance, so use it._ He remembered them clearly, as if they'd been spoken yesterday. He also remembered the cruel reality of them, the torture they'd turned his life into. He was still angry about it and he let it loose.

"Hopeless battle? That's not the hunter I remember. Dean, these people need you—"

"I don't need a lecture!"

"And I'm not giving one! You have a job to do, whether you want to do it or not! Those things are coming in here and they're gonna kill everybody, or worse. You have to protect them, and I won't walk away from that. I won't let you go, not again!"

Even Sam was surprised by the outburst, and Dean's eyes said he was, too. They also said he was seriously thinking about throwing a punch, and Sam feared he might have gone too far. He stood his ground, though. He'd failed Dean once; he wouldn't do it again. It was that simple.

The punch brewing in his brother's eyes never came, and the shorter man turned back to the schematic. His voice was subdued when he spoke again. "Make yourself useful and check the perimeter for me. I'll tell Sarah not to shoot you."

Sam stared at him for a moment, uncertain, but beginning to feel grateful. Dean was giving him a chance. "Thank you."

Dean ignored him. "Get a move on before I change my mind."

Sam was moving before Dean stopped speaking.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

He checked and re-checked the perimeter of the entire school. Everything was set: five hunters besides himself and Dean were in the building, not counting the sharpshooter on the roof, and Sam made sure each one was set up with all the holy water, salt rounds, and photocopied exorcisms they could carry.

Ten of the trainees Dean had mentioned were there as well, partnered two to each hunter. Sam went around double-checking their weapons and offering encouragement where he could. His brother was right; they were just kids. All of them were terrified, but they didn't back down.

Of course, the full-fledged hunters were terrified, too. Sam could see it in their eyes. He couldn't blame them.

Most people there wouldn't look him in the eye, though word had been passed down from Dean that Sam was going to help them. Sam realized, in this world, his face and his name were synonymous with an inhuman, tyrannical monster, but it was hard not to try to argue with them. _He_ wasn't a monster; he just wanted to help.

All the same, he gave Sarah Blake a wide berth whenever their paths crossed. Fortunately, she was preoccupied getting the civilians out, and paid him little attention.

By the time Sam made it back around to Dean's command post, night had fallen outside. The attack was imminent; he could feel it in his bones. An ominous quiet had fallen over the whole area. Anyone near a window on the east side of the building cast nervous stares toward the border, and the blacker-than-black "clouds" that flitted about the sky in seemingly random directions. No one was optimistic enough to think it was just bad weather.

Dean looked over at him when Sam entered, not pausing in his last minute instructions to one of the messengers who would be running information back and forth between the defenders. One of the problems of living in a ruined world, Sam had realized that evening, was that once the power plants were gone and the batteries died, technology such as cell phones and walkie-talkies became useless and you were left with 19th century-level communications.

"Thought you got lost there for a little while."

Sam offered a small smile. "Just shoring up the defenses."

Dean dismissed the runner, who was barely a teenager, and offered Sam a faint, brief smile. "Thanks…you know, for sticking around."

"You didn't let Sarah shoot me. It's the least I could do."

A snort of laughter was the only reply. They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Sam turned to find one of the runners, this one a few years older than the other boy, sticking his head through the doorway.

"Dean, Sarah's in the meeting hall and says she's only got a few supplies to grab, then she's taking the last group to the buses."

Dean didn't have time to reply before a second messenger exploded through the doorway in a panic, nearly knocking the other boy off his feet.

"Dean! Chuck sends word that Samuel's been sighted at the eastern bridge, and three border patrol squads have missed their check-ins!"

Sam shot back around to Dean, who was loading his handgun. "It's starting."

"Get back to your posts," Dean ordered. The boys ran out, and Dean tossed Sam his backpack, handing over the Colt handle-first. "Here. You're gonna need this."

He opened the revolver and checked the five bullets inside. Five bullets wouldn't take out a hundred demons, but they might tip the scales at a crucial moment. He'd have to conserve ammo. Sam grabbed the holy water flask from the bag and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

Dean was already moving. "Let's get to Sarah and make sure she gets out all right."

They exited the room, moving to the end of the hallway and entering a larger, unfurnished circular room where Sarah was waiting. With her was Missouri, clutching her cane, the small boy Sam had seen Sarah with earlier, and Nick, who was armed with both a handgun and a shotgun. All had duffel bags at their feet.

Dean went straight to Sarah. "He's coming."

"We heard," she replied, loading her gun. "The buses are ready—they'll pull out as soon as we get there. The northern group has already left."

"All right." Dean nodded. "You guys go. We'll stay here and hold them off for as long as we can."

The small boy spoke for the first time since Sam had seen him. "But, Uncle Dean, I wanna stay with you!"

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, Sam's eyes widened in shock. _Uncle Dean?_

"Baby, it's not safe. We have to leave," Sarah whispered.

"Listen to your mother," Dean added.

Sam opened his mouth, but his mind refused to form a question, instead stupidly swirling around the new information.

_If Sarah is the boy's mother, and Dean's his uncle_…

Sam's stunned realization was interrupted by the sound of an explosion outside. The rumble was followed by the sound of wrenching metal and a muted scream from above. Outside the room's one large window, Sam saw the ventilator housing—and the sniper it protected—fall from the roof and land in a heap. Gunfire erupted from one of the hallways a moment later, followed by more horrible screams.

Nick and Sam headed for one of the doors leading out of the room, when it slammed in their faces and locked. The other two doors leading to a hallway and to the outside did the same simultaneously.

They were out of time.

Dean pointed while moving to help the hobbling Missouri. "Out the window, _now_!"

The others obeyed, but before they'd gone ten feet, the wreckage of the ventilator, and, grotesquely, the body of the sniper flew up from the ground and blocked the window as well. Their last escape route was cut off.

Dean scanned the room, wide-eyed, before pointing over Sam's shoulder. "See that closet?"

Sam twisted around, seeing a dark closet in the corner with a decrepit, splintered wood door. "Yeah?"

"Get inside," his brother commanded. "He doesn't know about you. You're our ace in the hole. Take a shot as soon as you get one."

Sam was pushed toward the door before he could argue, and he complied wordlessly. He raced over to the closet, crouched inside, and pulled the door shut behind him. He could see out into most of the room through a few broken slats in the center of it.

There hadn't been a moment to lose. Seconds after Sam dove into the closet, Dean, Sarah, and the others were all flung through the air, ending up pinned helplessly to the walls, their weapons clattering to the floor.

One of the doors swung open on the far side of the room, allowing someone to swagger inside. Sam's mouth dropped open at the sight of the newcomer.

It was him. Samuel. Sam gaped for a moment, taking in the image. It looked just like him, though the hair was longer, the clothes were blood-stained, and a hairline scar ran down the right side of Samuel's face, from forehead to chin. Aside from that, Sam might as well have been looking into a mirror.

Except for the eyes. Sam's eyes had been often mockingly described by Dean as "dewy and puppy-like." It was an asset in their line of work, as very often Sam could soften up a witness or potential ally with a look, whereas Dean's sometimes abrasive attitude would not.

Samuel's were nothing like Sam's. Where Sam hoped his eyes exuded honesty, Samuel's practically oozed malevolence. They were cold—like the eyes Sarah had been pinning him with since the previous night—but frighteningly aware. One look told Sam that his counterpart was not only evil, but incredibly dangerous.

Samuel pinned Dean with a shark-like stare. "Howdy, bro. Long time no see."

Dean said nothing, but it didn't seem to matter, as Samuel casually circled the room as if he weren't expecting a response. "Nice place you got here. A little under-furnished, though."

Samuel completed his circuit of the room, thankfully not getting close to Sam's hideout, and stopped in front of Dean. "But really…if you're finished playing Luke Skywalker to my Darth Vader, it's time you came home. I've _missed_ you, big brother."

At that, Dean cried out in pain, some unseen force apparently pressing against his body. Sam resisted the urge to rush out into the room, knowing they were relying on Samuel not knowing he was there.

While Dean writhed like a pinned bug, Samuel moved farther down the wall, stopping in front of Sarah and raising a hand to her cheek almost reverently. Sam could barely hear the words.

"My sweet. I don't know why you ran away. You were to be my queen."

"Get your filthy hands off her!" Nick interjected, straining futilely against the invisible bonds holding him to the wall. That was as far as his protest got. Samuel barely tilted his head, and Nick's jerked aside, stopping at an unnatural angle. Sam heard the sickening snap of the man's neck from where he was crouched. He had to force himself to stay calm. Nick's body slid off the wall, collapsing limply to the floor.

Samuel addressed the room at large. "This is a personal moment for us, let's have some privacy, eh?"

He waved his hand, and Sam heard another nauseating pop from Missouri's direction. The old psychic's head hung loosely as she, too, slid off the wall.

_This is what Jake would have become, eventually_, Sam thought, remembering the other psychic from his own world that the Yellow-Eyed Demon had corrupted, the one who had stabbed him and indirectly forced Dean into the deal that had killed him. Secretly, Sam had never really regretted killing the deranged soldier. Now, he felt vindicated.

He'd done his world a favor.

Samuel stepped back to Sarah as if they hadn't been interrupted. "Now, where were we? Oh, right. You running away and taking my boy with you. That's the unforgivable part. You didn't even divorce me…."

"Go to Hell," Sarah breathed, the depths of her hate for this man filling her eyes. Samuel replied by slapping her, hard. His voice was deadly calm.

"Don't talk to me that way in front of my son. He's my heir, after all." With that, Samuel left Sarah's side and moved in front of the child, who was clearly petrified. "It's okay, son."

The boy was frozen, too scared to shy away when his father's large hand ruffled his hair. Samuel smiled, almost warmly. "I've got such plans for you, Sammy…."

From his hiding place, Sam felt sick. "Sammy" was the nickname his late father and brother had always reserved for him. As a rebellious teenager, he'd rejected it, only later recognizing it for what it was, a verbal expression of familiarity and love, one of the few his family had ever stayed consistent with. Hearing it now, this perversion of it, made Sam queasy.

He quelled the feeling, though. Samuel was kneeling in front of the boy, and was the closest he was going to get to Sam's position. This was the chance Dean had hoped for when he'd pushed him in here. Silently, with practiced ease, Sam pulled back the hammer on the Colt, raising the gun to the hole in the door and taking a bead on Samuel's back. He prayed he wouldn't hit the boy, but couldn't wait any longer.

Unfortunately, he'd waited too long. As he tightened his finger on the trigger, Samuel's head cocked to one side. "What's this? Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

What felt like a solid wall of air slammed into Sam's back, blowing him through the old door. It splintered and exploded under his weight as he flew gracelessly into the center of the room.

Sam coughed, gasping as the wind was knocked out of him. He landed in a heap, with fragments of wood clattering around him. His hand reflexively loosened, and the Colt fell to the floor at his side.

He was trying to grab it back when he heard boots slowly coming toward him. "Well, well, what have we here?"

Sam looked up, seeing Samuel walking in a slow circle around him. For an instant, the other man's dark eyes glinted yellow. Slowly, Sam pushed himself to his knees, stopping there so as not to provoke his counterpart.

For his part, Samuel was frowning, then smiling uncertainly. Sam's appearance had rattled the calm façade a bit. "What have you done, Dean? A shapeshifter? If you missed me that much, all you had to do was call."

Sam risked a glance at Dean, who didn't respond to the barb. The older man's face was contorted in agony. Samuel was still torturing him. He shifted his eyes back to Samuel, whose circuit stopped when he was standing in front of Sam.

"No…not a shapeshifter. What—?" He stopped, twisting his head to look back at Dean, and then returning to Sam. "An alternate universe?"

He must have read it in Dean's mind. Samuel's psychic abilities were impressive. _Scary as hell, but impressive_. It made it all the more amazing that Dean had ever escaped this man's clutches. Sam's respect for this version of his brother rose even higher.

Samuel's face went from shocked surprise to arrogant amusement. "Huh. You don't see _that_ every day. Well, doesn't matter. Just a new toy. And you got the Colt back? We never got ours back from that bitch, Bela. I assumed some demon got a hold of it and destroyed it. This will come in handy. But, first things first. Pick it up."

At the same moment Samuel spoke, Sam felt the intrusion into his mind. It was like glass being driven into his skull. _Pick up the gun_.

In an instant, he realized Samuel was trying to control his mind, like Andy once had. Only, this psychic was far stronger than Andy Gallagher had ever been, and Sam could feel his mind being invaded. But this world's Sam Winchester must have forgotten something. It was Sam's only chance now. He had to play it perfectly.

He slowly gripped the Colt. Samuel's eyes filled with malice, and was that a hint of jealousy? "World's not big enough for the both of us, Sam. But I'll be sure to pay yours a visit when I'm done with this one. Put the gun to your head."

Sam felt the pressure in his head again. _Put the gun to your head and pull the trigger. It'll be okay._ Sam raised the Colt to his temple, pressing the muzzle against his skull. It was now or never. "You're forgetting something."

Samuel blinked, clearly not used to being talked back to anymore. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam said, turning the Colt toward his captor and firing before the other had a chance to react. The enchanted bullet caught Samuel in the chest, flashing and crackling with energy as it cancelled out his psychic abilities.

Samuel dropped to the floor, staring at Sam in almost comical confusion.

Everyone else dropped from the walls, free of his influence.

Sam stood and moved so he could look his evil twin in the face. "Guess it's been so long, you forgot. Mind control doesn't work on other psychics."

Samuel gaped at him, struggling to raise a hand toward the Colt. Insanely, he smiled, coughing up blood at the same time. "Doesn't matter. I ripped up the tracks on the way in here, all along the east side. Thousands of demons are coming…when they realize I'm dead…you're all going to die."

Sam didn't want take a chance that the mental powers might rebound, and his fury at this perversion of himself was overflowing. _This_ Sam Winchester had destroyed everything he should have cared about. Sam couldn't let him succeed. He fired off another round, hitting Samuel in the heart. The groping arm dropped to the floor like a string had been cut.

The deed done, he raced over to Dean, helping him sit up. Dean's skin was warm to the touch, as if he'd been burning from the inside out. "Are you okay?"

Dean smiled weakly. "I've had worse. He was just getting geared up, trust me."

Sam grimaced at that. He didn't want to think about it. _How could he torture his own brother? _He helped Dean to his feet, picking up a shotgun and letting Dean lean on it as a makeshift crutch. A glance revealed that Sarah was helping her son up, too.

He rushed over to her anyway, putting aside for the moment that she probably didn't want his help at all. "Are you all right?"

Sarah nodded, hugging Sammy to her chest. She glanced at Samuel's body, then back at Sam. "I, uh…I didn't believe it until he walked in. You weren't lying."

"No." Sam smiled, a macabre humor settling over him. "You can't make up stuff like _this_."

Sarah returned his smile slowly, then pulled Sam into an embrace, whispering into his ear, "Thank you for saving my son." She released him, smiling sadly as she went to retrieve her duffel bag.

Dean spoke up behind them. "Sarah, you and Sammy should go. Get to the buses and get everybody out before the demons realize Samuel isn't in control here anymore. Sam and I will see if there's anyone left alive in the building and follow you."

"You know I can't wait," Sarah warned, already moving toward the door that led outside.

"I know." Dean nodded. "Just go."

She was out the door a moment later. Sam turned to join Dean.

For the second time in two days, Sam met the butt of a rifle face-first.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Darkness embraced him, warm and comfortable. He was so tired. He could stay there forever, in that dreamless sleep. It was so different from the nightmare-plagued days of the past year. There he could almost forget about Dean, and the loneliness, and demons and Samuel—

_Samuel? Wait…. What—?_

Sam jolted awaked, arms tangled in a blanket that had been tucked around him. He almost banged his head on the car window. He immediately regretted opening his eyes when the pain shot through his head like lightning. Not unlike the lightning that was lancing through the sky outside his rain-soaked window. _Where the hell am I?_

A voice broke through his stupor, joined by a pair of fingers that were pressing into his neck, feeling for a pulse. "Finally. I was starting to worry that I hit you too hard."

Sam followed the voice, cracking his eyes open slower this time. Dean was behind the wheel of the car. He felt a momentary surge of déjà vu. How long had it been since he'd shared a car with his brother?

"Dean? What—? Where are we?"

"Just outside of Gatlinburg. You must be really tired, dude, you slept all day. And believe me, nowadays these cross-country trips are a total bore without someone to talk to, so you owe me _big_."

For a moment, Sam just stared at the dashboard, deliriously wondering if they were in the Impala. He must have said it out loud, since Dean answered.

"I wish, man. I never saw her again after he brought me back. I guess when you can control demons that can teleport you anywhere you want you don't need your brother's car anymore. I never found her."

Sam groaned, holding his throbbing head.

Dean tossed him a water bottle that was so cold, it had to have been sitting in ice. His brother confirmed it a second later. "That's the last of our ice, so I hope you appreciate it."

Pressing the cold plastic to his face, Sam tried to reassemble his fragmented thoughts. He'd just been in Wyoming, Sarah and her son—their son?— heading for the buses. Dean had hit him, apparently knocked him out….

"Dean? What's going on? What have you done?"

"I'm getting you back to where you belong."

"You need me here, Dean," Sam protested. The buildings of deserted Gatlinburg filled the view outside as the car entered the main stretch of shops and hotels. Sam ignored it all. "You need every hunter you can get."

"I told you, it won't matter, Sam," Dean muttered sadly, turning onto a side road and heading uphill. "This looks like the road you described. Hey, you think there's any of that jelly left in this town?"

"Dean!" Sam shouted, frustrated by the lack of response. "Dean, listen to me!"

Sooner than Sam expected, Dean stopped the car and slung it into park. He opened the door and climbed out, calling over his shoulder. "Get out, Sam, we're here."

Angry, Sam tossed the blanket and bottle aside, wrenching the door open and exiting into the storm. This was indeed the place. The ruined dwelling was resting on the side of the mountain where he'd left it, and the raging storm was swirling like a whirlpool overhead, centered over the remains of the house. He stalked around the back of the car where Dean was taking the Colt and Sam's phone and canteen of holy water out.

Dean completely ignored his attempts to argue, all but dragging Sam up the hill toward the house. For all the scars and as gaunt and malnourished as Dean looked, he was as strong as a mule. Just like the Dean he remembered. Sam finally planted his feet as they approached the entrance to the basement.

"Dean, _stop_! You have to listen—"

"No, _you_ listen!" Dean shouted, turning on him. "There's no safe zone in Texas, Sam!"

Sam was brought up short. "What?"

"I haven't gotten any news from San Antonio in weeks. I figure Samuel and his demons overran the place. The same goes for the one in Canada. I told you, he's been busy."

Shocked didn't begin to describe what Sam was feeling. Horrible realization began to dawn on him as he put it all together. "But, the buses…Sarah…."

"They won't find any help where they're going. The world's done for."

Sam swallowed back bile. There'd been hundreds of people in Dean's camp. "Does she know? Do any of them?"

"She does. We didn't tell the others. Better for morale and all that. The buses are locked down, like you did with this car." Dean crooked a thumb back at the car Sam had jury-rigged a week before. "As long as they can keep moving, they'll be safe from the demons. Sarah and I figured it would be better to fight it out on the road if we had to."

"But, Dean…all those people—"

"Are as good as dead sooner or later. Probably sooner. This war is over. We lost it years ago."

Sam looked away, unable to speak. What could he say to all of that?

"It's time for you to go back, Sam," Dean said, sounding sympathetic.

Everything inside Sam screamed no. He could say something to that. "Dean…I can't. I can't let you go, not again. _Please_."

Dean looked away for a moment, but when he turned back, there was no agreement in his eyes, only sadness. "You have to. Besides, what would _your_ brother think, if I let you die in this hellhole?"

"You _are_ my brother, Dean."

The other man shrugged. "Maybe. But not the _same_ one."

Sam felt the desperation gnawing at his insides. He couldn't just leave, not knowing what awaited this Dean.

An idea occurred to him, and had he been rational at that moment, he would have known what Dean's answer would be. He wasn't anywhere close to rational. "Come with me."

Dean blinked and, for the briefest of moments, looked like he wanted to, but then he shook his head and gestured toward the devastated landscape around them. "Don't you get it, Sammy? This is all _my_ fault. I sold my soul to bring you—him—back to life, and couldn't get out of the deal. I thought I was doing the right thing, leaving Sam alone like that. It hurt like hell, but I knew he could make it without me. I was wrong. Somewhere along the way, he screwed up. I don't know what it was; he never told me. But he made a mistake and the world paid for it, and it's on my head for putting him in that position."

He reached out and gripped Sam's shoulder, not unkindly, and motioned to the stairs. "You don't belong in my world, Sam, any more than I belong in yours. In a few days or weeks, none of this will matter, anyway."

Dean guided him to the steps and followed him down. Sam felt like he was walking to the gas chamber. Defeat engulfed him. He couldn't help this Dean any more than he had been able to help his own. He'd failed his brother again.

They reached the basement. The vortex was right where Sam had left it, flickering angrily against the wall. Sam moved into the room with it, and turned to face Dean again.

The other man was examining the room with a smirk. "Feng shui, very nice."

Sam couldn't bring himself to laugh, not even at his brother's inappropriate jokes.

Dean seemed to be feeling the same way, since the smirk vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Guess I'll see you around, Sammy."

For an instant, Sam was back on that dark road, watching his brother steel himself before the hellhounds dragged him away. Something inside him broke, and he knew the wetness on his face had nothing to do with the rain. He stepped forward and scooped Dean into an embrace, all machismo forgotten. He was reliving history. "Good-bye, Dean."

An awkward moment passed before Dean's hands wrapped around his shoulder blades. The older man squeezed hard. "Thanks for reminding me who my little brother was. I can't repay you enough for that."

Sam held on for a long moment, wishing he never had to let go. In the end, he forced himself to step back, wiping his eyes but feeling no embarrassment. When he trusted himself to speak, he looked up. "What are you going to do?"

Dean, who was looking decidedly choked up himself, shrugged. "I'm gonna break this circle as soon as you get through, then I think I'll head back west. Like you said, those people need me. It's my job to keep them safe."

Sam nodded, wanting to stall for time. There was never enough time. "So, me and Sarah could have a son…."

"I guess so," Dean confirmed, a devilish smile breaking out. "But I hope if you do on your side, he comes out looking more like his mother this time. Whew, what an ugly kid…."

A laugh that dangerously approached a sob escaped Sam's mouth. "Yeah. I hope so, too."

He couldn't think of any more excuses to linger. Hanging his head, Sam turned toward the vortex and stepped away from Dean. After placing the gun and his few belongings in his pockets, he spoke once more, looking over his shoulder.

"Dean…I won't let what happened here happen to me. I won't become that monster. I swear."

For a moment, he didn't think Dean had heard him.

Then his brother replied, "That's my boy."

This is it, then. Sam tried to prepare, wondering what this would feel like. He hadn't exactly been prepared the first time. He was almost ready to jump when he heard Dean again.

"Sam?"

He didn't turn, knowing if he looked again, he'd never be able to leave. "Yeah?"

"Samuel told me once…whatever he found to get me out of Hell, he found it under a cathedral in New York. That's all he said. It isn't much, but maybe that can help you."

Sam took that in, then nodded. "Thanks, big brother."

He didn't wait for a reply, knowing if he didn't go now, he never would. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and leaped forward.

00000

The first thing he was aware of was pain. Someone's hand slapping him across the cheek.

His eyes flew open, and Sam found himself staring into the deeply concerned face of Bobby Singer.

"Sam? You with me? Jesus, boy! You scared the heck outta me!"

Sam blinked, trying to get his bearings. He glanced around, noting the dusty walls and cobwebbed ceiling past Bobby's head. He was in a basement. The basement.

"Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam rasped. His throat felt like a desert. "How— How long was I…?"

Bobby helped him sit up. "I don't know. When I didn't hear from you after a whole day, I headed this way. Have you been unconscious for two days? Damn, son, I told you to call me when you found this place."

_Two— What?_ That couldn't be right. "Two days? That's…that's impossible."

Had it all been in his head? Sam looked around frantically, spotting the possessed man he'd been forced to kill before he'd been pulled into the vortex. Someone—Bobby maybe—had placed a blanket over the dead man's body.

Speaking of which, the vortex was still there, warping the air around it and still tugging at the room. It was sucking in air, forming a stiff breeze in the room, but it wasn't nearly as powerful as before.

Sam pulled the Colt out of his jacket and opened the revolver. He had to be sure. There were three bullets missing. One for this demon. Two for Samuel. It hadn't been a dream.

"Sam? Are you all right?" Bobby asked, turning Sam's head back to him so he could look at him. "Looks like you've been hit in the head a couple of times."

His head was still throbbing from where Dean had hit him. Or was it from the trip back? _Only two days?_

Sam gathered his thoughts enough to accept Bobby's hand and stand up. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

Fighting off a wave of vertigo, Sam focused on the demonic circle surrounding them on the floor. Glancing past Bobby, he saw the other one in the outer room. Bobby must have cut down the bodies of the unfortunate family, since they were set aside and covered up like the other one.

"We have to break these circles. Get a knife and scrape away the paint and the blood. We'll get the lighter fluid and salt and burn the floor, too. And the bodies."

Bobby looked dubious. "Sam—"

"It's the only way to close this thing," Sam broke in, stronger than intended. He frowned. "Trust me, okay? I know what I'm doing."

He'd salt and burn the whole basement. The concrete floor would keep it from spreading. But, honestly, he didn't care if he had to burn the whole damned house.

Sam kneeled down as Bobby went into the other room, pulled a knife—Dean's knife—out of his weapons bag, and started scraping at the chalk and paint that formed the circle. His eyes drifted up to the vortex as he worked.

For a moment, he caught of glimpse of something, or someone, deep in the murky interior of the whirlpool, posed as if it—he?—were doing the same thing as Sam.

He clenched his jaw, forcing his hand not to slow, and to finish the job.

The vortex abruptly shrank, then collapsed entirely in a rush of light and noise, then it was gone. An eerie silence descended over the room.

It was over.

Sam blinked away the sudden moisture in his eyes, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling of sadness that threatened to drown him.

Dean's words echoed in his ears. _That's my boy_.

"Sam?" Bobby reappeared, stepping into the room, holding lighter fluid and matches. "You sure you're okay? You look like hell."

His friend's gruffness brought a smile to Sam's face. He nodded before setting his jaw. "We have to get to New York when we're done here. I got a lead on how to help Dean."

The older hunter frowned, looking like he was going to argue.

"Bobby, please. I'll explain on the way. You've got to trust me on this one."

"Okay." Bobby nodded. "You got it."

As he stood and started helping Bobby with the bodies, it occurred to Sam that Dean hadn't specified New York City, but it was a place to start. Hell, he'd turn every church and cathedral in the state upside down if he had to.

Then, maybe, when it was all over and he'd rescued his brother…maybe he'd stop by Sarah's and pay her a visit. It'd been a long time.

END

_Author's Note:__ May 12, 2009. Within a week, Jeanne Gold's next fanzine, Blood Brothers 3, goes on sale. In it, I've published the sequel to this story, "Out of the Fire and Into the Pan," in which Sam follows the clue given him by the mirror universe's Dean and goes off in search of a way to release his Dean from Hell. _

_At Jeanne's and K Hanna Korossy's suggestion, this has become a trilogy. Part 3 will appear next year. _

_Thanks for reading, everybody!_


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